The Secondary Globalized Hostility Chronicle
by Anonymississippi
Summary: Or... the Big Bang during WWII. Watching some old movies gives Amy some strange dreams. Follow Dr. Sheldon 'Coop' Cooper, as he negotiates this critical period of scientific invention during a global crisis. And how does the intriguing radio host, A.F. Fowler, interfere with his plans in Pasadena during the early 1940s? SHAMY. Note rating change.
1. Prologue

_**SO... I did a thing. A thing that is probably WAY beyond me, that I've actually only started, which I fear. Wholeheartedly. But I wanted to try. Really, a Shamy story outside of TBBT universe? I've never written an AU, so I suppose I could consider this a challenge worth facing. Only problem is, this has the potential to be huge. Long. Like, unfathomable for me (for I value structure so!). So I don't want to promise constant updates. But I promise to try. **_

_**The first bit is the conduit for the historical reality. I don't own it, won't own it. Lorre, Prady, MOLARO, those guys. And CBS. Kudos to them. *gulps* Here goes nothing...  
**_

_Prologue  
_

"Polka dots are quite possibly the cutest pattern circulating within the American fashion industry today," Penny declared, draping the hemline of her blouse just-so over her waistband as Bernadette and Amy admired the ensemble from her living room couch. Scattered wine glasses, a discarded pizza box and the universal remote littered the coffee table. The trio, or, _The Ladies of Los Robles_, as the 2nd floor tenants had dubbed them, assembled for one of their usual gatherings as the boys blasted each other into oblivion with plastic buttons and virtual army gear across the hall.

"Polka dots have nothing to do with polka dancing," Amy said, admiring the red and white circular pattern. "The term actually originated in the early 30s, before the—"

"And it was on sale!" Penny interrupted, twirling so the blouse flared at the bottom.

"Ooooooh, it's so retro," Bernadette piped up. "Do you have it for a special occasion?"

"Not unless you count getting my weekly check as a special occasion," Penny muttered, eyeing the blouse reproachfully. "I think I might have a shopping problem."

"Not necessarily. Your fiscal crises have decreased by a surprising 43% within the past two years," Amy said nonchalantly. She brought the wine glass to her lips and threw back the remaining gulp.

"How do you know anything about my money?"

"Sheldon made a chart."

"Of course he did," Bernadette sighed.

"Oh, I think it's quite wise of him to do so," Amy rebutted. "Penny was his debtor at one point. Tracking her economic behavior, as well as estimated net income and net grosses would enable him to better gauge his response should Penny need any monetary loans in the future. If he concludes that she is wisely spending, yet merely low on funds at the designated moment, he will act in accordance and proceed with the lending. If she has been mismanaging funds—"

"I don't mismanage funds!" Penny exclaimed. "And just how detailed is this chart? Why are you and Sheldon talking about my money?"

"I told you, you've established a pattern of borrowing. Should you borrow again—"

"But I paid him back!"

"Of course. But you must understand, Sheldon is meticulous in these matters. And you shouldn't take it personally. He has fiscal projections for me and Leonard, and a hypothetical projection chart should you and Leonard ever merge accounts, or if he and I ever do."

"You don't mean, like a joint account?" Bernadette queried.

"Yes, exactly."

"But wouldn't that mean you'd have to be sharing major expenses? Like, _living_ expenses?"

"Yes… I don't understand your confusion," Amy said.

"Sharing all of your money like that…" Bernadette started. "I mean, that's a big step. I had to have a serious discussion with Howard about it even _after _we were married. You both remember the action figure debacle."

Penny and Amy nodded in unison.

"I don't think Sheldon created these because of any emotional attachment," Amy clarified. "Though I wish he did. It's obvious that Leonard will be moving in with Penny sometime in the not-too-distant future."

"Hey now, we don't know what's going to happ—"

"Come on Penny, we all know what's going to happen," Bernadette insisted. She could be a bit waspish when tipsy.

"It's only logical that he would keep an eye on his roommate's funds. They do share living expenses. And, should you move in with Leonard or vice-versa after he returns from his trip, the fiscal aspect of the friendship would alter significantly. And we all know how much Sheldon likes alterations."

Penny reached for the tab on the boxed wine. She liked to keep things classy in 4B.

"But that doesn't explain why he has your bank information. Or why he has a chart with your funds in a joint account," Penny said knowingly.

"As I said, Sheldon is coming at this from a very logical perspective. I am his friend, girlfriend, and emergency contact. Should he knock himself unconscious while having some physics conniption, it would be my job to manage his medical bills during his long and ultimately romantic comatose period."

"Have you fantasized about Sheldon being in a coma?!" Bernadette squeaked.

"He wakes up after a considerably tragic period of a few years and, upon realizing that I waited for him, confesses his undying love for me. Having lost his job at the university, his new-found passion for life drives him to work harder than ever before, earning him his Nobel Prize nomination just two years after his miraculous recovery."

"You do realize he would have missed out on whatever theoretical advancements were made during his coma, and would be significantly behind in his field?" Bernadette said.

"Don't rain on my parade!" Amy said. "Besides, it's just a fantasy."

Bernadette and Penny tilted their heads at each other, giggling.

"But please don't tell him about that," Amy said. "He'll take to avoiding me and blunt objects."

"But it can't _just _be about the medical thing," Penny prodded, jumping back on subject. "Like Bernadette said, merging accounts is a big step. Leonard and I haven't even talked about that yet!"

"Of course you haven't. Your fear of commitment limits many of your possible conversations. But don't worry, Sheldon has that factored into the chart."

"Sheldon has my commitment issues in his chart?!"

"He calculates every variable. He has a projected timeline for you overcoming your commitment phobias, coupled with Leonard's career trajectory, fiscal earnings, and a window in which you two will ultimately decide to be together. He therefore has a tentative date for when he will need a new roommate. He showed me his results and talked about the conclusions with me two date nights past," Amy said, a small smile appearing on her face. "He estimates that by the time you and Leonard truly commit, like, with legal documentation of some sort, he would be ready to consider my moving in as his roommate, which, naturally involves a thorough review of my bank account."

Penny hiccupped strangely and a trickle of red wine seemed to be leaking from her nostril, resembling one of Sheldon's stress-induced nosebleeds. Bernadette thumped her over the back as the blonde spat and coughed, stumbling toward the fridge for a bottled water.

"You mean to say…" Penny gargled. "He wants you to move in with him?"

Amy's eyes widened in horror. "Oh, gosh no!" she said. "I'm saying, at some undeterminable time in the future, he's going to _consider_ it."

"Sounds to me like he's considering it now," Bernadette said.

"No, you don't understand. This timeline is years in the making. A lot longer than the five-year plan I had in place."

"But what if Leonard and I get married like, right when he gets back from the Hawking thing?" Penny asked.

Bernadette and Amy whipped their heads toward the end of the couch, Penny perched, water bottle in hand, on the armrest.

"I'm not saying we will!" she held her hands up in a defensive position. "But he can't know what's going to happen with you two, let alone with me and Leonard."

"Doesn't mean he can't try to be prepared for all scenarios," Amy countered. "Sheldon's not extremely concerned about money, but he's no fool. It's more about a secure, stable life holistically more so than monetarily."

"I wish I didn't have to mess with all of these bills," Penny sighed, thumbing through a few envelopes. "Mobile, electric, satellite, gas—"

"At least you don't have an internet bill," Bernadette said.

"It's almost worth paying for not to hear Sheldon's stupid wifi passwords every time I ask Leonard," Penny said. "Things would have been so much easier, not to mention less expensive if we didn't live when all this stuff was invented. Tell Sheldon to make _that_ chart."

"Not necessarily. You'd have to factor in inflation, past cost of living, standard of living—"

"I got it," Penny said.

"She's not wrong on this," Bernadette chimed in. "Simpler, certainly. Cheaper, possibly. But easier? Definitely not. I'd never want to live at any time before the invention of scanning tunneling microscopes."

"Or ultracentrifuges!" Amy said. "I wouldn't even know how to function with an instrument only reaching 40,000 rpm."

"I hear ya ladies. We didn't get the WonderBra until the 90s."

Amy and Bernadette regarded Penny quizzically.

"What? Technology helps the girls," Penny defended, giving a little shimmy. "Imagine having to wear a corset, or something ridiculous like that!"

"Actually, female undergarment technology correlates directly to the women's movement," Amy said. "In the early to mid1910s, what we conceive of as the modern bra was invented. The fashion soon became to suppress the breasts, as flappers tended to go for the boy-like figure with sleek styles and cropped hair. The 40s and 50s developed the bullet bra, which led to Madonna's iconic 'cone' brassiere, whom Victoria can thank for the majority of her secrets."

"How does she even—"

"Don't look at me," Bernadette said, at a loss for Amy's rambles.

"It's true. Take any film star from the Golden Age starting from the early 40s. Filmmakers were leaning toward sexualizing women, so their costumes became more elaborate and form-fitting, directing attention to the bust."

"Hold on," Penny said, approaching her entertainment console. "I know I've got 'em back here somewhere."

"Got what? A bra textbook?" Bernadette asked.

"No… it's not… here we go!" Penny said, emerging with three DVDs, all with black and white cover art.

"_Casablanca_, _Sergeant York_, and _They Were Expendable_. Penny, what are these?" Bernadette asked.

"Old movies I used to watch with my dad. They'd come on every now and then on the old movie channel. Remember, my family's from Nebraska. Dad loves a good shoot 'em up as much as anything. Of course he'd love John Wayne," she said, pointing toward one of the covers.

"I've seen _Casablanca_." Bernie said. "But isn't this the guy from that Christmas movie?"

"The one with the absurd premise that upon a bell's toll, an angel will somehow sprout winged appendages?" Amy asked.

"You ruin the sentiment when you say it that way," Bernadette said.

"Nope. Try Gary Cooper. Though I guess with the black-and-white you could confuse him with Jimmy Stewart," Penny's eyes crossed a bit in her buzzed state. She brought the DVD case inches from her nose, and then held it at arm's length, before abandoning it on the coffee table altogether. "Back to the point. Look at these women!" Penny said. "They didn't have to worry about stupid money issues, _AND _they had awesome bras."

"Yeah, they didn't have to worry about money, but that's because they didn't have any. It was a man's world back then," Bernadette said.

"There are some seriously strong women in these movies!" Penny asserted. "Come on, it's movie night, ladies. Besides, these are classics. And if the boys can be over there playing war, we can at least watch a little of it."

"That doesn't seem like logical reasoning," Amy said skeptically.

"Come oooooonnnnn, Ames," Penny said, at the boxed wine tab again. "You really liked _Grease_ and you'd never seen it before. Besides, you might learn something."

"Doubtful. I already know everything I need to know about American history and involvement in the world wars. It's unlikely that overly romanticized Hollywood depictions will offer any factual supplement."

"Well forget learning. Maybe you'll feel something," Penny said, plopping _Casablanca _into the DVD player. "A couple of old war films might affect you more than you'd think."

_**So that was pretty much all girl's night filler/intro. But next chapter, we'll be back, oh... about 70 years. I hope you guys find this as interesting an idea as I do. Leave a review if you're so inclined. I appreciate any and all feedback, negative or positive, criticism or praise. Bye for now. **_


	2. Chapter 1: Back in the Day

_**Usual disclaimers apply. Enjoy!**_

Dr. Sheldon Lee 'Coop' Cooper had never been one for conflict. He was not nonconfrontational, though. He possessed few qualms pertaining to challenging others, especially their intellectual or idiotic verbal assertions. But physical conflict of any sort found Coop out of his element. Which is why the impending war made him so nervous.

"When do you think FDR will make the move?" Leo asked.

Coop's homunculus-framed roommate stopped at the corner and handed a nickel to the boisterous newsboy, flipping to the headline above the fold. _The Pasadena Post_ sported large block letters and sensationalized headlines, but the stories were less aggrandized than the _Times_. The day's date, September 14, 1941, stared back in smudged ink from the bottom corner of the periodical's header.

"German Army Occupies Kiev," Leo read. "There's no way they'll get Moscow."

"Leaky Leo Hofstader, you know better than to make such an assertion without qualifying the statement. 'No way' seems a bit totalitarian," Coop returned. "And please don't feel the need to read aloud to me. I will relieve you of the paper when you have finished your perusal, but I would like to state up front that I find your narrative voice droning and monotone."

"Always so complimentary," Leo mumbled, tucking the paper under his arm as they turned the block to the university campus.

Situated only blocks away from the duo's shared rented apartment, the California Institute of Technology sported an impressive array of noted scientists on the handsome university faculty. Einstein's stay and subsequent stint as a visiting professor in the early 30s had boosted interest in the school for other infamous researchers. President Millikan had single-handedly turned the place into a hotbed (though not radioactive) of productivity. Which is why both Leo and Coop were set up in the physics department with somewhat free reign in their applied and theoretical projects. Coop was, in his unchallengeable opinion, right where he needed to be: at the physical heart of scientific discovery.

"And you've undoubtedly requested the presence of that simpleton for our three-man chess game tonight," Coop said.

"Howard's been coming to three-man chess night for years. I don't know why he rubs you the wrong way."

"Pardon?" Coop said, eyes bugging.

"It's just an expression. And he's not a simpleton. He's a weapons designer for the Army. He takes stuff that people think about all day and he actually makes it happen."

"I'm only suggesting a possible expansion of our social group."

Leo sighed. "Every time I try to invite someone to any of your scheduled activities, you find them, and I quote, 'trite and tiring'."

"I do not _find _them that way. They simply _are _trite and tiring. And many of them are unenthused if not absolutely unable to participate in three-person chess. There's a certain caliber of person with whom I deserve to engage."

"Do you even hear yourself when you speak?" Leo asked, astounded by his roommate's arrogance.

"Of course I do. And you should listen more closely. You might learn something."

"What about Stu? Down at the newsstand. He's quite clever."

"If we must resort to that invitation…" Coop said, though his tone suggested he was less than keen.

The pair turned the corner to the red brick building on the west side of the campus, bypassing the open quadrangle and spouting fountain. Leo opened the door and skittered down the hallway, dodging mobile apparatuses containing chemicals, currents, and coils. He shouted over his shoulder, "Penelope is coming over as well! This is your twelve hour notice!"

Coop's face contorted unpleasantly. He supposed he considered Penelope a friend, though he oftentimes needed to mentally prepare for her company. The baffling dalliance with Leo had lasted for what seemed like ages, though it took her quite some time to commit to the steady relationship Leo had requested. She was not on Coop's level, or even Leo's level intellectually, but she frequently, as Leo so crassly put it, 'let him have it' whenever social conventions were violated due to his apparent awkwardness in societal interactions. She would come and read her magazine, or insist on listening to some hackneyed melody on the radio for the evening's duration. But there was little Coop could do about it now. Her presence was assured. Coop removed his watch from the slitted vest pocket. Leo had given him the necessary notice, though only just. He rolled his eyes and meandered down the hallway of the physics building, ruminating on the possibility that protons were not in fact the smallest components of the atom.

* * *

"You can't seriously support eugenics," Leo said.

"Of course I can. I may not agree with Dr. Millikan on his cosmic ray theory, but his idea of a gifted generation is not absurd," Coop countered. They had ended their work days and begun the trudge back to their apartment, arguing. Debating, Coop termed it, but Leo always seemed to come out of these debates on the losing side. It was rather annoying.

"I don't think that's exactly what he meant, Coop."

"Of course it was! Should I desire to gift humanity with my progeny, which will _already_ be particularly advanced, why should I not be selective with the other half of its genetic makeup?"

"You realize this would require you to… you know, copulate with someone? We're talking marriage."

"I said 'should I', Leo. Not 'when I'. You make everything sound so definite."

"Yeah, and you make it sound like you're trying for a master race. Maybe you should join the Führer."

Coop stopped abruptly, his jaw set hard. "I'm not a proponent of Nietzsche's overman. And the Third Reich is driven by blind racism, not a desire to foster intellectual strides. Some of the greatest minds of our time have been Jewish, and for all we know the Gestapo have prematurely ended the life of the next breakthrough researcher. I do not appreciate your levity when discussing such matters."

"I was only…" Leo ended his protest, the stern expression and alarmed tone almost turning one Dr. Cooper blue in the face. "I didn't mean anything quite so serious," Leo reiterated. "It was just a laugh."

"Considering the current global state, I don't find any of what's happening the least bit humorous."

"Got it," Leo said, continuing along the sidewalk. "Want a shake before we head home?"

They passed the exterior chromium plating at Sammy's, the burger joint the pair frequented. It also just so happened to be one of Penelope's many places of occupation. She divided her time between a nightclub, Sammy's, and a few odd screen auditions for MGM and Paramount, a vocal reading for RKO, etc. etc. Penelope was, as she kept needlessly reminding Coop (he possessed an eidetic memory, after all), an aspiring actress. Multiple menial jobs were evidently necessary prerequisites for aspiring actresses, for everywhere he turned in Pasadena, pretty young girls cleared tables and served drinks and brewed coffee. He had been informed that this constituted 'paying one's dues' to the industry. Though why the women couldn't just pay yearly dues like any other club, Coop would never know.

"No thank you. It's a bit cool for a shake, don't you think?"

Leo took the hint.

"I'll just be a moment," he insisted.

Coop took out his pocket watch once more. "You have ten minutes. I'm leaving without you if you take any longer, schmoozing with your sweetheart."

"I'll schmooze all I want."

"Go ahead. Get her fired. I'm sure that's what she wants. _Another _menial position."

"Just wait at the corner," Leo said, exasperation bubbling. He ducked into Sammy's and rotated his neck round like a telescope, seeking out the slim blonde he inexplicably "loved" and "adored." Coop would never understand that. He'd never much been one for interaction, romantic, platonic, or what have you. He thought relationships and the almost perverse need for human contact inexplicable, what with their inconveniences and compromises, the entire idea that another's person's needs were better than one's own. At least he recognized his selfishness. He recognized it, and reveled in it.

He averted his gaze from the window, hoping to avoid any canoodling the pair managed to perform during the ten-minute interval he had allotted his roommate. His haughty attitude drove his motion, for he turned violently from the window and into a passerby, sending a briefcase and binder full of documents onto the pavement.

"Oh!"

"Oh, dear," Coop said, stooping down to collect the folder. He pulled a handkerchief from his suit pocket, deftly sliding it over the spine of the binder. "I'm quite sorry, but you should really think about slowing your pace, miss. You're simply asking for an injury."

"Um, you ran into _me_, and my pace is not to fault. Your complete disregard for trafficked walkways seems to be the reason for this blunder. Besides, I'm late for work."

Coop surveyed the shorter woman as he transferred the binder to her.

"You should have prepared for every inevitability," Coop insisted, determined that the incident was not his fault.

"Possibility."

"Pardon?"

"Prepared for every possibility. It was _possible_ that I would run into some loitering man, but not probable. 'Inevitable' makes it sound so definite, and your running into me could certainly not be assured, given the _possible_ variables for a random collision."

Coop's mouth hung slightly, perplexed by the woman before him. "I suppose I misspoke."

"I agree with your supposition. May I have my briefcase back now? As I said, I'm quite late."

"Of course."

The handoff made, the woman spun nimbly on her heels, walking backward as she yelled at him: "It's my job to be fast-paced. I hardly think skulking on corners is yours."

She skipped past the traffic light and shuffled through the crosswalk.

Atypical. In a deck stacked full of clubs, twos, fours of spades, tens of diamonds, each and every girl in California aspiring to be the Queen of hearts, this woman seemed content to play the Joker. Unused. Unnoticed. Discarded… or miscarded, Coop thought. Only unused until you needed her, only unnoticed until she _made_ you notice her. Her features were dark and angular, her countenance reserved, unassuming; her gait suggested a checked energy, as if, in her past, she had exploded once and then been reprimanded for her outburst. And now, she strained to _re_strain, hoping to come off much less pretty than she was.

She wore a bulky, wide-collared trench to combat the unnaturally cool temperature. Her horn-rimmed glasses framed what Coop thought were hazel eyes; their interaction was too sudden and confounding for him to be positive. Clutching her briefcase with a defensive air, the woman ducked into the side door of the radio station, KRVT.

"Journalism," Coop deduced.

"What about it?" Leo asked, joining him on the corner.

"Nothing. But I just had the most bewildering interaction with some woman who went in that building."

"A willing interaction?"

Coop snorted. "When have I every willingly interacted with anybody?"

"Point taken. Why was it bewildering?"

"She corrected me."

"What?"

"I was wrong and she corrected me."

"Wait, what? You just said you were wrong?!"

"I misspoke and she caught it. It happens so infrequently, that I was surprised when a layperson pointed it out to me."

"Even when you've been proven wrong you still sound condescending," Leo muttered.

Coop threw a final glance at the station door, but decided against further contemplation. It would gain him nothing and probably only serve to extend some superfluous worry. And, as his mother always said, worry never gave nobody nothin' good, just lines and warts. Besides, his brain cells were better spent pondering more important theoretical concerns.

"It's no matter," Coop said. "The interaction was her fault anyway." Though he wasn't sure that it was. "And we have dinner to prepare and I have a game to win."

"There's that confidence we just can't get enough of," Leo said sarcastically.

The pair moved down the sidewalk with no further mention of the episode, too engrossed in possible opening strategies for their weekly round of three-person chess.

_**So... there's that. Reviews appreciated.  
**_


	3. Island Invasion

_**Usual disclaimers...**_

"Did you ever get a call about your proposal?" Howie asked, moving the knight cattycornered against Sheldon's bishop. "Or any correspondence? It's a shame you have to wait on some uppity big shot to sign off on your project, especially when you've been right on the nose the whole time."

"Flattery will not distract me, and thus will not prevent me from taking your queen, Mr. Wolowitz," Coop said, swooping in with his rook. "Take a gander at that move, gentlemen," Coop said.

"You're sharp, Coop," Leo said, removing his own queen from the line of fire. "Might be too sharp for your own good."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Coop asked defensively.

"Means Oppenheimer won't put you on his team no matter how in-the-know you are about neuron chain reactions. You keep flapping your lips like you're Inferno's Dante, and nobody, no matter how wise you think you are, nobody's going to see you for anything but a wise guy."

"I am a wise guy," Coop insisted.

"He didn't mean you were wise. He meant you're a know-it-all egomaniac," Howie sighed, moving again.

"I have no idea what you two are talking about," Coop said, eyeing the checked playing board.

"I don't know a neutron from Revlon, but even I know what they're talking about, Cooper-dooper," Penelope said, swinging her nylon-encased legs down from the stool in their kitchenette. She put down her periodical and strode over, hitching a hip over the arm of Leo's chair.

Coop stared blankly back at her.

"They're saying that Mr. Oppy-what's-his-name isn't going to put you on the project if you don't stop being such a smart ass."

"I hardly think—"

"And it doesn't matter how smart you _think_ you are, you gotta show them that you can work with other people. This is a collaborative project, right?"

"There might have been some government funding involved, but I wouldn't be forced to work with other people," Coop asserted.

"Wrong," Howie said. "Take it from a guy who works for the Army, if the money isn't yours, then you have to work with the person who controls it. There's umpteen gillion government channels you have to go through. You can't know anything for sure yet."

"I didn't mean administratively, I meant on the academic side of things. And I don't think the hyperbole is helping your argument," Coop said. He made another move, and the game continued.

"You have to learn how to work with other people. That's the long and short of it," Penelope said.

"What does collaboration get you?"

"Better social skills, for one thing," Howie said under his breath.

"The funding plays a big role in it, Coop. You're going to have to be able to work with your superiors," Leo said.

"I'm much better at starting and following through on my own projects. A little isolation never hurt anyone."

"A man is not an island," Leo retaliated.

"No man is an island. Donne," Coop corrected.

"That's right you are!" Howie said, swooping past with his knight.

"Not 'done.' Donne. As in John Donne, from the seventeenth Meditation."

"That's what I said," Leo insisted, waving him off.

"Not precisely. In the meantime, I'm about to have you in a check, bud."

"Not before Howie check mates you," Leo said.

Coop stared at the board during his move, his pointer resting on the tiny cross at the head of his king. He had prepared for every inevitability… _possibility_, he corrected. Should Leo and Howie attack or defend, rotate or advance, slide or retreat, he had prepared. They wanted to win. That was the object of the game. There was Howie's rook. And Leo's knight and two-pawn protection. But it was almost as if they had combined to force a zugswang, though surreptitiously, so that every previous move had advanced him against one opponent and hindered him against the other. It wasn't that they were trying to win individually. They were simply ensuring that he would lose collaboratively.

"You cheated!" Coop exclaimed.

"We've done nothing of the sort," Leo said.

"But chess is not a partnership!"

"It is when there's three people and one's an arrogant son of a—"

"Howie! Penelope's here," Leo said.

"He's an arrogant SOB who needed to be taught a lesson," Howie countered.

"But you won't win!" Coop said.

"It doesn't matter that one of us won't win, Coop. The point is, you definitely won't. We, as individuals, might not win, but at least the common enemy will lose," Leo grinned at his explanation.

"I'm sure there's a point to this, but you've nevertheless played the game incorrectly," Coop said.

"Collaborating was never against the rules," Leo sing-songed.

"It's implied."

Leo and Howie gave him merciless, skeptical looks. Even Penelope's sliver of a grin was condescending.

"Well, it should've been." Coop pushed up from the table in a huff, heading down the hallway.

"Come on Coop, we'll play another round!" Howie said.

Coop turned back on his heel. "No. I'm going to bed, because you cheated, and I can't compete properly until I account for possible two-fold attacks from your joint alliance!"

"Cripes. He's even more testy than usual," Howie said, swiping the chess pieces into a small, drawstring bag. "Doesn't matter, Bernie will want me home early anyway. But you've got to get your roommate to handle rejection better."

"This is the fourth application he's made to join an exterior team," Leo said, folding the checkered board and putting it into the box.

"What do you mean?" Penelope asked.

"The Rockefeller Foundation has been placing refugee academics from central Europe at various American universities while… well, until they can go back to their homeland," Leo explained. He desperately hated discussing war matters with Penelope. "Coop's applied to study on four different councils with the some of these guys, with the caveat that he is not forced to collaborate or submit any of his findings unless he thinks them up to scratch."

"I don't understand. He wants to work with them, but he doesn't want to work with them?" Penelope asked.

"He wants to work with them on his own terms," Leo explained. "And he wants to come out of it looking smarter than the whole lot. He'll take the feedback if it doesn't make him look like a goof."

"He can't be that upset about it. Those are some outrageous requests," Howie said.

"Bohr just turned him down," Leo said.

"Ouch," Howie winced.

"The government funding is substantial if he wants to see any of his theories applied with neutron bombardment and the radioactive isotope implosion," Leo began.

"And that's where I depart," Penny said, offering a dramatic yawn-stretch combo. "You guys feel free to discuss Cooper-dooper's closeted inferiority complex all you want with your fancy sciencey gobbledygook, but this doll wants some beauty sleep."

"As if you need any," Leo said.

"Awe… We're so over that at this point, sweetie," Penelope said unsympathetically, sauntering across the hall to her apartment.

"He'll be fine," Leo said.

"Yeah. But this might have been a good lesson for him. You know, no man is an island," Howie echoed.

"And if he is, he's going to get invaded."

_**Shorter chapter. But we'll see Coop and Amelia together again next time. Reviews, criticism, and speculation appreciated. :D  
**_


	4. Have We Met? Unfortunately

_**Usual disclaimers... Enjoy!**_

As a rule, Coop found people self-serving and obnoxious. Very rarely did he actively engage with others, and when he did, it was accompanied with myriad protests, loaded sighs, and haughty scoffs of derision. If the current global situation had taught him anything, it was that Hobbes had it right: people were naturally bad.

But it's not that he opted for complete seclusion. He had just reprimanded Leo for his absolutist mentality, and any one thought trajectory that was not open to adaption, alteration, or susceptible to change, was necessarily defunct. Science had proven the benefits of mutation. Darwinism. Applicable to him: social Darwinism. He interacted, though uncongenially. He enjoyed Leo's company, and might go so far as to say he liked Penelope, though her prattling made it rather difficult for him to keep such an optimistic view of her character. Howie was a flipped coin, heads one day and tails the next, but his interests overlapped with Coop's so much that Coop would definitely include him in the 'friend' column of his chart. Not that he had a chart anymore. Coop had burned it at age ten, after his thirteenth black eye, as the 'mortal enemies' column grew and grew, while the 'friend' column only contained the names of older adults who had frequently called him 'special'.

Three of the five names were his family members.

So what good would it do for him to be more conciliatory when people were so obstinate? He knew he was smart. Clever. A genius. How could he temper it, or subdue the flood of information, just to mollify some administrative big shot? It was absurd. Howie and Leo's pointing it out with their elementary chess lesson only served to infuriate him further, not to teach him anything useful. He was not a child. He knew the conditions under which he could best perform, and stating them upfront in his research proposals was only saving time, time that could be better spent determining the agitated effects of neutron bombardment on the stability of atomic elements in the radioactive sphere of the periodic table.

He had not heard back from Berkley yet, not that President Millikan would put any of his telegrams through straightaway.

Though he would never admit this to anyone, he desperately wanted the position on Oppenheimer's team. The University of California at Berkley would not require relocation; he could execute the majority of his work in his home office at CalTech, and then make the five-hour commute north every few weekends to submit his findings. It was ideal.

He could take the Thursday train up every other weekend, spend Friday with some tedious supervisor, and return on Saturday. Not only did it fit into his schedule, but he would also be able to ride on Pullman's new lightweight class, model 482 Pacific Steam engine. In coach, at first. But after his initial breakthrough, which _was_ inevitable, Miss woman-on-the-street, perhaps Berkley would spring for a private compartment. Yes. Perfect. He could maintain his privacy, his aloofness, and still hold a position under Oppenheimer, which would give him access to the funding. All he had to do was wait.

Unfortunately, Coop disliked waiting as much as he disliked people.

Which found the lanky, peculiar theoretician loping, deep in thought, to his spot on the open quadrangle. Positioned underneath a non-sappy red maple, which, from trunk circumference, couldn't have been more than twelve years old, his bench provided a pleasant escape from the bustle of the noon-day scramble in the physics building. After a particularly productive morning, he enjoyed lording his achievements over Leo and a few of the other members of the faculty as they ate their lunch. But today, after no response from Oppenheimer at Berkley, he needed the comfort of his designated spot, located fourteen degrees southwest from the biology building, which paralleled the Baxter lecture hall, the two buildings thus producing a pleasant breezeway while simultaneously acting as a buffer for heavy foot traffic during the midday undergraduate stampede to the students' cafeteria.

He was so wrapped up in his mental justification for the insufferable qualities of those inferior to him that he nearly missed the person occupying his usual perch. It wasn't until he was practically sitting on the stranger's lap that he leaped back, embarrassed and annoyed and anything but comfortable.

"Oh no! I can't believe I just—"

"Not the first time I've been sat on, actually," the woman replied, placing her book aside on the bench.

"It's you!" Coop said.

"It's me," the woman deadpanned.

"I bumped into you—"

"So you admit it."

"What? No, I was only reminding you—"

"I think I would remember the man who nearly sent three months worth of data collection into the rough and tumble streets of Pasadena," she said, clutching her binder close to her torso.

"But you seemed to not remember me."

"Forgive me if this sounds insulting, but I would assume one who works at a university would know that things are not always what they seem."

"Obviously. But judging from your surprised tone and facial expression…" he trailed off, suddenly curious as to why he was justifying himself to a stranger.

"I suppose that's my fault. I've been told I'm difficult to read during social interactions."

"Me, too," Coop said.

The woman nodded once, retrieved her book, and went back to reading.

"Excuse me?"

"A much better way of getting a person's attention," the woman said in exasperation, placing her book down. "You know, as opposed to the sitting."

"No… that's not… you're…" Coop huffed. "You're in my spot."

"I'm sorry?"

"You're forgiven. Now, if you would…" he extended a hand to his side, flicking his fingers as if she were a puppy, or a confused child.

"I'm not getting up."

"But it's my spot."

"Is it dedicated to you?"

"No."

"No placard? Brick engraving? Do you have your initials carved into the maple? Which would be quite sad, not to mention environmentally destructive."

"There's no physical designation, but I sit here every time I—" he faltered. "That is, I sit here every day during lunch."

"No you don't," she countered.

"Pardon?"

"You're excused. I was here yesterday. You weren't. I was likewise here last Thursday, and you were not. It is not, as your argument presupposes, your 'spot', simply because you sit here frequently. It is not reserved, despite your somewhat regular visits. You can't sit here when it rains, unless I'm mistaken in my regard of you, and you prefer your clothing saturated with precipitation."

"I don't sit on benches in the rain. That's absurd."

"As is this argument."

"I'm not arguing!"

"Getting defensive is a tell-tell sign of argumentation."

"I know that, but I'm not—" Coop turned. "It's irrelevant. Your logic is unfortunately, infallible."

"But?" the woman prodded.

"But I would really like to sit in my spot today, and enjoy the breeze."

"The bench is wide enough for two people's posteriors to rest comfortably, and three to rest uncomfortably. But if a third strange man approaches, vilifying me for my choice of seating position, I'll have to excuse myself. I'm not a fan of unnecessary touching with strangers." She paused, examining Coop with a wary glance. "Or acquaintances for that matter."

"You don't even work here. Why are you making this so difficult?"

"Who says I don't work here?"

"I do."

"Well then it _must _be true."

"I saw you walking into the radio station after you bumped into me."

"You cannot derive a conclusion based on a singular piece of evidence, unless said evidence is replicated enough to withstand further scrutiny."

"I know that."

"Then why assume I work at the radio station?"

"A of all: you walked in there. B of all: you said, 'It's my job to be fast-paced.' C of all: I saw the KRVT letterhead on your papers when you dropped them yesterday."

"Kudos, Sherlock," she said dismissively. "And, as much fun as this was, it's time for me to return to the occupation you so skillfully deduced I perform. Another unpleasant conversation, coupled with needless contact. Good day."

"But I didn't— we… you can't just…" Coop stuttered, still angrily flustered over losing the quarrel. Though he wasn't quite sure if there was still any disagreement to continue.

"Hey!" he shouted, almost mortified that he was participating in such a display on campus. Yet he needed to know just _what_ this woman's problem was with him. "What's your name, anyway?"

"Amelia," she shouted, not even turning around. She gave an awkward, abrupt wave of her hand, still clutching her binder close with the other. "Thanks for another engaging interaction."

She continued walking down the pavement, then jolted to a stop, and about faced. "That was sarcasm. I've been told I have difficulty relaying such messages due to my tone." Amelia nodded stiffly, and walked away.

Coop slid down in his seat, feeling drained. He removed his pocket watch and stood again, bereft, for his lunch break had ended three minutes ago.

_**Why does she keep showing up? There's a reason, I promise. Quicker update today, 'cause I found season six bloopers on Youtube and the cast is just ADORABLE with a totes' adorbs added in. LOVE them. They inspire the writing. Anywho, feedback always appreciated. The good, bad and ugly. I take it all. **_


	5. Once More, with Feeling

_**I don't think I've said this yet, but a BIG thanks to all who have read and reviewed. I always love feedback, and the follows and favorites just warm my heart *smiles*. Again, I don't own anything. Not the Big Bang Theory, not the characters. Everything to CBS, Lorre, Prady, Molaro. Including my sanity. Enjoy a little longer chapter...**_

"Gah, what is _wrong _with you today?" Leo asked, nudging Coop ever so slightly with his elbow. "You've barely said three words, and those weren't even an insult to my intelligence!"

"I'm fine. Just tired."

"Are you sure? You're not sick or anything?"

"I know my own body better than you do."

"I don't know. With those physiological charts floating around the apartment, I could probably give you a run for your money on the 'Coop's bodily functions' quiz."

"I just didn't sleep well."

"Why not?"

"I dreamed I had insomnia."

"That's not— what?"

"A bad night. 'S all."

"Are you worried about your Berkley request?"

Leo knew Coop wouldn't admit it; his roommate was more sensitive than he let on, but Coop's hope and resulting vulnerabilities to rejection were evident.

"It's no big thing," Leo continued. "You've got a sweet deal here at CalTech. Why would you want to just add more to your plate?"

"It's that kind of attitude that kept you from getting your Ph.D. well into your early 20s," Coop said, dismissive tone returning. "I've got a lot of work to do. I'll see you at five."

Coop trudged down the hall and into his office, yesterday's equations staining the blackboard. He retrieved a pencil and notebook and set to transcribing them, double-checking calculations and equivalencies for any errors. Once done, he grabbed the bucket stowed safely under the right drawer of his desk and meandered back through the hallways, avoiding bustling undergrads as they bottlenecked the entrance to the main lecture hall in his building. Outside, he rounded the corner and twisted the lone water spigot sprouting from the corner of the brick façade. He carefully filled the water bucket just a third of the way full, and, checking his watch to avoid further student traffic, returned to his office.

He had perfected this routine of data collection and erasure over the years, having been splashed by late lecture attendees if only fifteen seconds ahead of schedule. It took him roughly thirty minutes to erase the blackboard, scrub the surface with his wet washcloth, and then wait for it to dry. But he had performed this cleaning ritual since his early physics days back in Dallas. The only difference was, he preferred the colored chalk then.

Coop knew that this routine, this recording and replacing yesterday's ideas helped him to focus on the ideas of today. And, this morning, he certainly needed focus. He'd been rattled ever since the chess game with Leo and Howie, and yesterday's episode at lunch had not helped in the slightest. He wanted to clear his mind, just as he cleared his blackboard. His fingertips touching, he rested his upper lip on his joined hands, staring intently at the drying board. Ten blank minutes later, he retrieved a new stick of chalk from the designated drawer, and began with sigma squared.

* * *

His stomach, ever on time, began gurgling at five to noon. Coop's morning of equation navigation found him emerging from his office in considerably better spirits than when he entered. His theories concerning the separation of radioactive isotopes via magnetic wave principles inspired the same contentment in Coop as a chocolate malt might inspire in a ten-year-old. Making his way down the hall, Coop calculated the coefficients of two inverse functions he was considering using in a supplementary equation, that is, if the magnetic pull registered at a specific…

He stopped and surveyed the cafeteria, then hung his head in defeat. Undergrads, graduate students, and even a handful of research assistants sat, scattered amongst the usual faculty members. It was the second week of school, and this was the informal meet-and-greet between the research staff and the student population. Damn. Leo waved at him to join them at a table in the center. Howie was at his side, but the table was crawling with boys little more than teenagers. One looked as if he were about to catapult a glop of potatoes at his dining mate. Coop would have none of it.

He returned to the buffet line, bypassing the hot lunches, which caused several grumbles from those standing with proffered plates and hungry stomachs.

"Hey, can you wait your turn?"

"I'm not getting anything from this section. It's only logical that I would bypass the roast when all I want is a banana from the fruit basket."

"But what if we wanted that? We were here first, after all." The kid looked about nineteen or twenty, stocky, blonde, and the leader of the pack of boys who were craning their necks down the line to witness the holdup. "Just who do you think you are, anyway?"

Coop sighed. His mood, at a low and then a high, had taken yet another nosedive. And now, he was going to scare this little boy to pieces.

"I'm Dr. Sheldon Lee Cooper, and I made more scientific advancements in the field of theoretical physics by the time I was fifteen than you can hope to achieve in your entire academic career. If you would ever like to see the inside of a research lab again at this university, you will watch your tone."

Coop then moved through the line, plucked his banana and an orange, for later, from the fruit basket, and retreated from the cafeteria.

The day, like yesterday, was pleasant. And with the undergrads schmoozing with the faculty representatives of their various majors and concentrations, he would be free to return to his preferred spot under the maple. His mood was rising, plateauing favorably as he heard a train whistle in the distance. He took some smug satisfaction in talking down the dumbfounded young man, which only served to aid the boy in the long run. Coop's attitude was improving. A better attitude, better working conditions. Better working conditions, better work.

He turned the final corner to the open stretch of grass leading to his bench when he saw her. Again. And she saw him. And she _smirked_. His mood plummeted.

Some meticulous nuisance, hell bent on irking his every peeve, poking each distaste with a stick. That's what she was. A challenge, albeit agreeable, to his daily patrol of the area. His brief tour about the campus, interrupted by some interloper with social disregard to rival his own. To rile him up so quickly was inane. To openly refute his statements, unacceptable. Yet here she was, though he no more in favor of their last episode's repetition.

"Have you returned to continue our discussion?" she asked.

"I don't see how it may be continued, and I would hardly call that a discussion," he said, intent on standing his ground today. He needed to feel a little more assertive.

"More of a verbal pummeling, I dare say."

Coop rocked uneasily in his buffed black loafers, hands clasped in their ritual position at the small of his back, suit buttons undone should she offer him a place on the bench. Not that he had prepared for another meeting. He merely required ample range of motion for his perambulations; if some subconscious part of him expected her presence, he could hardly fault an area of his mind over which he had little control.

"Yes, well, at the risk of beating a dead horse—"

"I am in your spot."

"Indeed," he said.

"And do you wish to rehash an unnecessary argument that has previously been followed to its only conclusion, or would you rather take the side of logic, and join me, as the bench has sufficient room for us both?"

"The type of rhetorical phrasing you utilize makes me look the fool if I do not accept."

"I've been known to have an incredibly persuasive speaking voice."

Coop bowed in amicable resignation, taking his seat approximately twenty-two centimeters to the left of his usual spot. The heat was thankfully tempered with an easy September breeze, pleasant enough for the remaining coeds to exploit. Two young men had discarded their blazers and were throwing baseballs with those sweaty, repugnant mitts Coop had detested as a child. A trio of young women in cotton dresses drank bottled Cokes and meandered down sidewalks around the secluded green, mooning over the toss and catch and dive of their male classmates. How those women would become professionals with such a lack of focus…

Professional women. Sheldon turned to his bench companion, who had retrieved an apple wrapped in a cloth from the inside of her handbag.

"Amelia, was it?"

"Yes," she replied.

"Have we… that is, you seem quite familiar."

"Many people are quite familiar with me."

"How so?"

"Maybe it will come to you," she said, crunching into her apple.

"That is unlikely."

"Perhaps this will help: 'Nobel Prize winning pharmacologist Otto Loewi has extended his researching stint at NYU, focusing on acetylcholine stimulants over the vagus nerves—"

"You're A. F. Fowler!" Coop interrupted.

"I am."

"I listen to your show every Friday."

"Thank you, I appreciate your time."

"No," Coop said, tone getting closer and closer to what a passerby might categorize as friendly. "I might even go so far as to call myself a fan. I wrote a letter to your station; did you receive it?"

"Probably not. I don't get many letters, due to the specificity of the program, and my being, well…"

"Being what?"

"My station fears that I am incredible."

"What? Why? A doctorate in biology, emphasis in physiological and neurological studies, plus your obvious interest in mathematics, communications, and applied engineering. How could your supervisors think you incredible?"

Amelia turned into him slightly, taken aback. "Did you memorize my bio?"

"They relay your credentials at the opening of each broadcast…" Coop said, almost defensively. "And I have an eidetic memory."

"You could have probably led with that, to better prevent yourself from sounding obsessive," Amelia said, nibbling once more at her apple. She exhaled heavily, and prodded at a loosed string of hair that had fallen from her updo. "They fear listeners will not take the reporting seriously because I'm a woman."

"That's ridiculous. Your schooling and professionalism speak for themselves."

"Again, thank you for your support. But ask yourself, if I am as educated and qualified as the next scientist, why am I not working in a lab? Possibly on a research project?"

Coop turned toward her and shrugged his shoulders.

"Once again, I am a woman. Of my fellow doctoral graduates, two were women. One is married and maintains her home splendidly, and the other is a nurse in charge of the neurology ward at St. Dominic's. I teach introductory biology at UCLA, and have replaced KRVT's lead science reporter because he's moved to Manhattan or something, a project with the OSRD."

Coop turned his head back to the quad, eyes shifting from the soda-toting girls to the ball-throwing boys. Manhattan. The OSRD. How much did she really know?

"I still apply for research jobs at universities," she said. "No interviews. Only when I started writing my initials on the applications was I called in to speak with department heads. I was, heh… politely put down. The radio gig is the closest I've come to keeping a toehold in the scientific community at large. No original study, or work, but I do get to learn about others' projects."

"It is unfortunate that you could not obtain a position that would allow for research, if that is your passion."

"I plan to continue applying. Until then, I have to be diligent and expert at reporting. I don't want to give the studio yet another reason to discount me."

Coop nodded, the soundless environment only ever unsettled by an occasional laugh from the baseball boys or a deafening crunch from Amelia's apple. Coop's mind began to wander, between projectile trajectories of spherical baseballs to Berkley to trains to his fortune at being born male.

After Amelia finished her apple, fastidiously wrapping the core back in her handkerchief, she interrupted the quiet.

"Despite your passionate argument for this position, you never said why you prefer it to other seating areas in the open quadrangle," she said.

"Located fourteen degrees southwest of the biology building and parallel to Baxter, the two buildings produce the optimum breezeway in the frequent California heat, while simultaneously allowing for shade under the uncharacteristically, non-sappy red maple. Additionally, I avoid the undergrads during their midday stampede to the cafeteria, located on the other side of campus. This spot provides the seclusion I prefer."

"Until I came and took it."

"If it can't belong to me, it can't belong to you. So you didn't 'take' anything."

"True," she nodded. "It's nice to have a thinking spot."

"Every spot I occupy is a thinking spot," Coop said indignantly.

"You're being too literal," Amelia accused. "Bright mind or no, spatial cognizance and atmospheric stability contributes significantly toward a person's mental output. If one does not feel safe, or secure, or peaceful, it is difficult for one to produce work of a certain quality. If the environment is upset, the subject inhabiting said environment will likewise be."

"Then why are you upsetting my environment?" Coop asked.

"Unfortunately, I don't have the luxury of working in one spot. My research is mobile, and instead of working in my own office, as I'm sure _you_ get to, I'm forced to share space with a roomful of other reporters, transcribing their notes into typed copy to be read on-air. And I have to do the groundwork, as my show is primarily feature-based, not hard news. Not that the _Times_ or the _Post _showcase hard news anyway."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I have a problem with overly sensationalized events. It can cause hysterics."

"Especially now," Coop said.

"Especially now," Amelia agreed.

"Don't you have an office at the university?"

"More of a cubicle, but that's stretching it. Again, shared space with other instructors. Nowhere to think privately." Her eyes followed the maple limbs' trajectories. "I can see why you like this spot," she said quietly.

"So you've been gathering some information for an upcoming broadcast?" Coop ventured, changing a subject he suspected had turned too heavy.

"Indeed."

"And the research pertains to…?"

Amelia turned her head inquisitively toward Coop, giving him a quick visual sweep.

"I honestly wouldn't have pegged you for small talk," she said.

"I'm told it's a non-optional social convention. And you changed the subject."

"You did, too. Maybe I just want you listening to my broadcast instead of giving away the details before it airs."

"Fine."

"Fine."

And so they sat. And continued sitting. Amelia would occasionally jot a line in a small notebook, consider it, and then scratch through it. Coop watched her circle several words, then fold back the page diagonally, tucking the right corner to the page before it. Some oddly practiced method for information-gathering. He was interested, but not enough to inquire about her process. She made pointed reference to his forced inquiries, which, he was now thinking, were not quite so obligatory, if someone of her professional caliber questioned the practice. Curse Leo and his silly 'social cue' lessons. Encouraging him to 'converse with the layman'. As if that would aid him in any way.

Besides, he didn't much feel like talking. He was still hung up on Berkley. And Oppenheimer. Yes. He much preferred sitting. And with Amelia so invested in her own noted scrawl, he could almost imagine she wasn't there. Almost. He _was_ twenty-two centimeters to the left of his usual university spot, so that was unfortunate. Unfortunate, but not unbearable. He could sit here. And so he sat. And continued sitting.

"Well, this has been pleasant. I particularly liked the part where you complimented my credentials," Amelia said, rising.

Coop withdrew his pocket watch, astonished to find he had been sitting in amicable silence with the radio woman for nearly twenty minutes.

"It shouldn't be misconstrued as a compliment. A summary of your qualifications at best."

"Perhaps my qualifications just sound so impressive I can't help but misconstrue their summarization as complimentary."

"They aren't _that _impressive."

"Well, it's not two Ph.D.'s, two M.S.'s, and undergrad work. Nor have I been to Germany as a visiting professor. But I do alright."

"'Alright' is an odd assess— did you just list my degrees?" he asked abruptly.

"Not the whole list."

"You know about my academic credentials? And my stint in Germany?"

"I also know your name, Dr. Cooper, though you never introduced yourself. Which, incidentally, is an _actual_ nonnegotiable social convention. Perhaps you should note that for future dealings."

Coop didn't know if he was offended by her direct, offhand tone… or refreshed. She was blunt in her statements, which he appreciated. The meaningless niceties set aside, she still seemed more adept at interacting than he did. But it was her job to interact, so he didn't attribute any undue credit to her person.

"I'll keep that in mind. But why acknowledge _my_ credentials? They aren't broadcast weekly on a syndicated radio network."

"I'm not syndicated," she said with a small smile. "Yet."

"Avoiding the question," he said.

"It's my job to know about current trends in science. You are a current trend. Oppenheimer is a current trend. CalTech even, is a current trend. And your President Millikan, who has been so kind to allow me to interview him these past several days. Who's to say I won't need you for a story one day as well?"

"Who's to say I would consent to being interviewed?"

"In all seriousness, I'm not here to bother you," Amelia continued, opening the latch to her pocketbook. She placed the pencil and small notebook inside, and tucked it under her arm. "This was my last day at the university, so unless I do any further stories on CalTech or its staff, which seems unlikely in the foreseeable future, I will not return to the campus, and thus will not occupy your spot. Good day to you, Dr. Cooper."

"Good day, Dr. Fowler," Coop said, rising. He was a gentleman, after all. Additionally, there was a small part of him that could hear his mother's threatening tone, that he'd be receiving a tanned hide should he remain sitting in the presence of a departing or arriving lady. Only manners would silence it.

He nodded once and she the same, before turning on her heel and walking down the sidewalk. Coop, intrigued, started to sit, pondering her connectedness, her attention to current trends in science.

"Amelia!" he shouted, popping up quickly. "Wait!" he tromped down the sidewalk to catch her.

"I know theory is all about thinking until something comes to you, but I've got _real_ work to do. 300 words on applied army technologies due by—"

"What do you know about Oppenheimer?!" he asked.

"What?" she said, still walking.

"You said, when you were talking about your job, you had to know about scientific trends. You said I was a current trend. And that Oppenheimer was a current trend. What does that mean?"

"It means you're both current trends," she said evasively.

"No. Why the two of us? Why not _any other scientist out there_?" he said, daring to shuffle in front of her to halt her advance. "I've been trying to connect with him at Berkley for ages. Do you know something?"

"How would I know—"

"How would you NOT know! You just said it's your job to know!"

Amelia rolled her eyes at his tone, removing her notepad from her pocketbook. She slowly turned a few sheets, scanning the page for the information.

"Can I see it?" Coop asked excitedly.

"Do you read shorthand?"

"No."

"Then no… Hmm…" she said, eyes darting over the lead scratches. "My contacts at Berkley said you were on his new assembly. That's correct, is it not?"

Coop stared, glassy eyed and mouth gaping.

"Look, I've got confirmation from multiple sources, including President Millikan, so you can quit with the 'surprised' routine, okay?" Amelia continued. "I don't know why you're acting so…"

She flipped her notepad closed, put it away again, and then reconsidered Coop.

"Dr. Cooper? Did you know you had been assigned to Dr. Oppenheimer's team? Hans Bethe, that younger guy… Feynman? They seem to be recruiting loads of theoreticians and applied physicists."

Coop couldn't seem to articulate a sentence. He merely stood before her, dazed.

"Dr. Cooper?" Amelia asked. "Dr. Cooper? Are you quite alright?" she nudged his arm to get his attention.

"I'm… I'm…" Coop started grinning. And then, he did something strange. "I'm parched. And curious. Could I buy you a beverage and possibly ask you a few questions?"

"I suppose," Amelia said hesitantly.

"Wonderful. I'm 91% sure you will not regret it."

"Why don't numbers like that make me feel better?"

And the pair walked off the CalTech campus in the middle of the workday, because Coop had just gotten a new job and Amelia was _this_ close to securing a new source.

* * *

_**Soooooooo... IDK if any readers out there are WWII history buffs, but I am not. What little I've gotten on the Manhattan Project and the timeline and the scientific such and such I've gotten from Google and one documentary from the military channel. So I apologize if some of this stuff seems a little off. And this isn't meant to be like super feminist either, it's just we have the luxury of history to look back and wonder if Amy or Bernadette would have had the jobs they have currently during the 40s due to their sex. **_

_**Again, this story is about the SHAMY. I'll try my best to throw in accurate, appropriate and correct details. And I appreciate your feedback if you guys think something is blatantly wrong or inaccurate. I'll take it. I can only hope to improve. But I might bend history to my will if it serves the story. Don't kill me for it. **_

_**Review if you feel so inclined.**_

_**-A**_


	6. An Interaction: But Not No Never a Date

_**Usual disclaimers apply. Enjoy! :D**_

"Playin' hookie, sweetie?" Penelope asked, tray laden with sodas containing various flavor shots and large, puck-like burgers, slathered in ketchup and nestled between golden brown buns. There was a bit of a draft wafting through Sammy's. The competing odors of raw beef and vanilla ice cream drifted out the door, propelled by the ceiling fans and open windows. Penelope raised a shellacked nail in the air with her pointer, signaling the 'just one minute' wait as she doled out the drinks and entrees to a group of bright-eyed, All-American boys. One boy placed a straw aggressively between his teeth and shot goopy root beer float across the table, earning an eye roll from Coop. His gaze left the table and found Amelia's face, whose quirked brow and scrunched nose signified her similar impatience and disregard for such shenanigans.

"We're a little busy, Coop," Penelope said, grabbing a customary menu. He always ordered the same thing, though he would not order without having a menu in his possession. Proper dining protocol, he'd once told her. "You can just grab your seat at the bar and Janice can fix you up."

"We'd prefer a booth, and are prepared to wait should that not be presently available."

"Is Leo coming, too?" Penelope asked. "He'd mentioned stopping in for lunch one day."

"No."

"Oh, I thought you said 'we'."

"I did."

"But—" Penelope's usually clear, unworried face wrinkled, perplexed. Until she looked two inches to Coop's left. And then her face lit up like a summer night on Coney. "Oh! Oh… Yeah, righto, booth coming right up!" she cooed, and hurried off.

"Speed is no substitute for efficiency! Clean the table properly!" Coop yelled in her direction.

"A friend of yours?" Amelia asked.

"I suppose. She lives in the apartment across the hall, and is in a pair bond relationship with my roommate."

"She's especially bubbly."

"She intends to be an actress. I believe 'bubbly' is a prerequisite. As is unfortunate employment in the service industry."

"Come on guys!" Penelope said, jabbing a pen behind her ear as her blonde ponytail bobbed back and forth. She virtually skipped toward the corner two sections down from the rowdy boys, struggling to hide a grin as Amelia took a seat and Coop slid into the opposing booth.

"Hi, I'm Penelope," she said, extending a hand in Amelia's direction.

"Amelia," she returned, giving her a professional grasp and quick shake.

"I haven't met a lot of Coop's… friends before. Well, other than Leo that is."

"Leo is my roommate," Coop chimed in.

"Understood," Amelia nodded.

All the while, Penelope hovered over the pair like a bird of prey, her alert eyes disconcerting when paired with the outrageously large grin.

"I don't mean to be rude," Amelia said, after a few more moments under Penelope's creepy stare. "But are you going to take our orders?"

"Yes! Yes, I am. That's what I'm here for. Anytime you need me, I'm your girl."

"Please Penelope, you're acting strangely. Do you feel ill?" Coop asked.

"What, me? No… Just— just a bit, surprised, is all," Penelope said.

"Why?" Coop asked.

"Oh, you know…" she tilted her head toward Amelia, then her eyebrows seemed to spasm.

"Are you having problems with your facial muscle control? Because that's an early sign of a brain stroke."

"I believe she's referring to my presence," Amelia said absentmindedly, scanning the menu.

"What? Why? Does _she_ know about Oppenheimer?" Coop asked.

"Who?" Penelope said. "Oh yeah, yeah," she said, recognition dawning. "Oppy-what's-his-face."

"A negative," Amelia said.

"Coop…" Penelope began, lowering her voice. "Is this, not a… social… interaction?"

"Of course it is. Implicit in the definition of 'social' is interaction, which this is, though the tedium is about to make it quite unenjoyable," he said.

"So this is a… date, right?" Penelope asked.

Coop jerked his head toward her, then directed his attention to Amelia, who had slapped the menu down on the table with such force that the salt and pepper shakers wobbled.

"A date? Of… of course not!" Coop said, heat rising in his cheeks. "No, this is just a professional… engagement, of sorts."

"Correct," Amelia nodded, eyes returning to their normal size, looking less and less like a frightened bush baby.

"I hope you didn't think—"

"I wouldn't dare presume—"

"How 'bout I give you some time to look at the menu and you can figure it out," Penelope said, eager for further developments.

She traipsed off behind the counter.

"You were saying that you were confirming something about a team being developed under Oppenheimer?" Coop asked, flattening the silverware napkin on the booth's surface. He stared at it, ironing out wrinkles with his fingers, avoiding any mental inkling that his inviting Dr. Fowler to a diner might be considered a date. More of an interrogation. He wouldn't invite her back to his private office, unescorted. He barely knew the woman.

"Yes. I've been following a few leads about a scientific team assembly, which may or may not be headed by Oppenheimer. Nothing's been made official yet."

"No information you can confirm?" he asked hopefully.

"Nothing," Amy said, slumping back in her seat. "Every lead I have fizzles. Get confirmation from one source, a second discounts it. Or someone will call the station and withdraw their original statement."

"Once it's on the record—"

"I'm not going to run something unless it's true," Amelia said, eyes darting upwards. "Another disagreement between me and the station manager."

"But you knew that Oppenheimer would be requesting my participation on the team project. Do you know what that entails?"

"I was hoping you could tell me," she said, notebook materializing on the table. She pulled a sharpened pencil from behind her ear; Coop hadn't noticed it perched above her glasses' frames. "So, Dr. Cooper, what's your area of expertise?"

"Ha!" Coop snort-laughed, crossing him arms fussily. Before he could launch into a tirade of his multiple specialties, Penelope returned.

"Seems like it's going well!" she smiled.

"What evidence helped you come to that conclusion?" Amelia queried.

"He's laughing! Well, sort of. As close to a laugh as he gets. When something's really funny, he does this… hyperventilating thing. Like my cousin Bodie when I showed her how to gut a sow." Penelope looked out the window dreamily. "Such a sensitive girl. Anyway, you two ready to order?"

"I'll just have a lemonade, as I've already consumed my lunch. Though it may not be wise to indulge in so much liquid. I'm afraid my bladder volume is equivalent to that of a test tube's."

Coop's eyes crinkled and he inhaled in staccato succession.

"Are you quite well?" Amelia asked.

"Just the laugh I was telling you about," Penelope said, scribbling on her pad.

"That was a humorous analogy, Dr. Fowler," Coop said. "And nothing for me Penelope, unless…"

"No, Coop, we don't have YooHoo. I don't think that's even a drink."

"Oh it is," Amelia said. "It's merely regionally dispersed, concentrated on the east coast. But it's slowly making its way across the country's landmass. I tried it in Chicago once."

"I told you it was real."

"It's real when I can pop the cap off the bottle for you, sweetie," Penelope said. "What about a strawberry phosphate instead?"

"I suppose," Coop said.

"Okay. Comin' right up."

"You were about to regale me with your many accomplishments," Amelia said, tapping the eraser end of her pencil on the table.

"I was, wasn't I?" Coop answered. "Well, you asked for it."

"Pertinent information only, please. I could care less about a metal you won in grade school."

"I didn't attend grade school."

"Oh. Perhaps you could tell me…" Amelia saw Penelope shaking her head as she approached with their drinks. "—_briefly_, about your early educational experience and your segue into academia." Amelia smiled at Penelope as Coop settled back in his seat, ripping the end of the paper casing off of his straw.

"Briefly, briefly. It'll hardly do my career justice."

"If I run a story it will do it even less justice. I'm going to be cutting words for time, and this piece isn't even _about_ you. When you change the trajectory of science forever, we'll go through every intimate detail of your personal history."

"So you'll be interviewing me again in a few years?"

"You're very confident."

"I am."

"Why?" Amelia asked, glancing at his blank face, his upper body tightly wound. Conceited, indeed.

"I was born in Texas, and learned to read before I was a toddler. In my early years, I was bussed back and forth to a special school in Dallas. I pursued my interests in various studies, but with the publication of Einstein's principle of relativity, in addition to his ideas concerning quantized atomic vibrations, I chose the path of theoretical physics. Throughout my mid-to-late teens I acquired my various degrees, and, as you know, spent roughly ten months in Germany between 1930-31 as a visiting researcher at Ruprecht-Karls-Universität Heidelberg."

"Your German is atrocious."

"Well, I'm a decade out of practice. Sie sprechen Deutsch?"

"Nein. Because I know how poorly I would sound in the attempt. I've some rudimentary Polish and a bit of Hebrew."

"Hobby?"

"Family. I'm Jewish, only second generation American. My grandparents, actually, left Poland and…" Amelia rubbed the eraser against the blank notebook paper, little grey shavings scattered over the lines. She hesitantly sipped at her lemonade. "You know, you're supposed to be telling me about you."

"Right, of course… Well, I can't boast much other than a purely Anglo-Saxon lineage, so I've mainly English and atrocious German," he continued, an attempt at lightening the mood. "As far as my career is concerned, I was recruited early, right out of Dallas, to come and be on the research faculty at CalTech. I was young, and subject to folly, so I chose the stint abroad. But I knew the offers would still be here upon my return."

"And your course of study currently?"

"I've been working on a variety of projects, most recently concerning electromagnetic forces and their influence on the implosion of radioactive isotopes. Though separation of the isotopes has proven difficult. Give it a few more years, and we'll have a break through on centrifugal isotopic separation à la Beams and Haynes."

Amelia's fingers flew across the pad, but she rarely looked down. "And this is your passion?"

"My passion? No, far from it. Within the field, there's this suggestion, hardly an inkling, one might not even call it an _idea_ yet—"

"Dr. Cooper."

"Sorry, sorry. You see, Einstein produced the theory of general relativity, but about twelve years ago, Kaluza posited there was in fact a _fifth_ dimension, which can explain gravitational and electromagnetic principles in the remaining four. Like… an… all-encompassing, complete, comprehensive—"

"Unifying?"

"Unifying! That's it precisely!" Coop said, excited. "I want to find the mathematical representation of a unifying theory of the universe."

"That sounds like quite a feat."

"I'm ready for the challenge."

"Is that what you'd be working on at Berkley?"

"No. Oppenheimer's more concerned with uranium isotopes, for some reason."

"You don't have to do that with me," Amelia said, suddenly serious.

"Do what?"

"I know about the letter Szilàrd sent to the President. And I know what Teller's been warning the government about, to get on with Fermi's proposals. Just because the OSRD isn't calling it uranium, doesn't mean they're not using it."

"That's just it, they haven't found a feasible way to extract it yet," Coop said, lowering his voice. She'd known about the warning letter the Hungarian physicist had sent FDR. And she'd already zeroed in on Oppenheimer. He had, to his surprise, underestimated her. So, the logical side of his brain asked, what's the point in pretending if she already knew? "Last year, at the conference at Berkley, we didn't have any manageable way to design any applied extraction experiments. Hence my study on centrifugal separation."

"We?"

"A handful of scientists. I can't speak for any of them, really. I was more or less there as an observer."

"Somehow I don't believe you."

"Should I even be talking to you about this?" Coop asked warily, straightening up. "How do I know you won't use it against me?"

"We're talking about radioactive technologies. We both know what's at stake here."

"Better we get it before the Germans... or even the Red Army," he muttered, taking hold of his phosphate shake and staring out the window. The sun was beating down on the pavement, sending little ripples of wave energy over the black byways. Concentrated wave energy powered by uranium implosions…A street car rolled by and two boys hopped off, dashing by the window of Sammy's and down the sidewalk. Surprisingly, life went on despite discoveries with radioactivity.

"How do you know about all of this anyway?" he asked.

She looked back, affronted. "It's my job. I keep my ear to the ground."

"That sounds highly unsanitary."

"It's an expression."

"Nevertheless, you best watch yourself with your head down that far," he warned. "You might get stepped on."

"Little ole' me?" Amelia asked. "A lowly biologist with a few undergrad classes and a poorly-rated radio program? I think I'll take my chances," she grinned. "Forgive me for asking, but why do you want to work for Oppenheimer anyway?"

"If it comes to full-fledged experimentation, he'll be the man they go to."

"I don't see that."

"Whether you see it or not is irrelevant."

"He's just so… 'electric' is the wrong word… Hmm… I've been told he's unorganized. Flighty, almost. Hardly the type of man the government would want heading a major military operation."

"He wouldn't be the administrative head," Coop said with a huff. "You may not be in research, but you know that academics and administrators are two completely different titles. He's brilliant, so he'll head the research. Some government bureaucrat will take over the rest of it."

"For someone who claims not to be affiliated with any project outside of his home university, you sure do seem to know a lot."

"You say that like it's surprising."

"That wasn't a compliment."

"I'll take it as one anyway."

She simply shook her head and grinned. Coop noticed the ringlet of hair she'd been battling all day had fallen once again. She should use better hair clips if it bothered her so, he thought. But then, who was he to say anything about her hair?

"If it makes you feel any better, I won't quote you directly," Amelia said. "I've been working on this piece for ages."

"About Oppenheimer?"

"You'll call it a slight on my journalistic integrity," she said, shoulders slumping as she stared at the edge of the table. "It started out as another basic profile, this time on California scientists. Producers said I would get more listeners if the stories were closer to home. So, I compromised. It seems no one wants to hear about biological advancements made in cardiac stimulation from a foreign scientist on the east coast."

"I do!"

She looked up and smiled warmly. Coop noticed her eyes crinkled a little, right at the outside edges, where the lines faded into the frames of her glasses. Her cheeks tinged pinkish; she ducked her head and continued.

"I do as well. But not my listeners. Or the listeners from the previous reporter. So I've been to UCLA, Berkeley, and CalTech, Stanford, Irvine, and Davis. All over, figuring out the best humanity profiles I could use for the show. But then these little links started appearing. One of the faculty members would leave and go federal. When I'd contact them, it was all very hush-hush. But the refugees granted asylum under the Rockefeller Foundation's placement talked. They know exactly what's going on in Europe, and they figure America should, too. They were busting at the seams to talk to me. That's how I found out about the letter, and the confidential commission called because of it."

"Then why don't you go to press? You've got Szilàrd's letter. Einstein backed him on it. Uranium is something people are going to want to know about, and if the Europeans are talking, you might as well use them."

"Ha!" Amelia said, though there was no humor in her voice. "First off, you think people who don't want to hear about _American_ scientists on the east coast will pay any heed to _European _ones? I don't care how smart they are, the public at large possesses a skewed perception of foreigners, benign or malicious. Secondly, none of these refugees, or even Einstein for that matter, have a certain clearance level within the federal government. I need a reputable source, preferably someone from the Oval office, or a general, to be willing to go on the record before I go on air with something this massive. Thirdly, and this ties in with number two, a story like this, if done properly, will drive the country into a panic. I would _have _to have full-disclosure from all of my sources, exact evidence, not the slightest bit of conjecture. There's too much at stake within the realm of public stability and morale."

"And your sources keep retracting their statements…"

"Which makes me think we know exactly what we're doing, but we're holding off on doing it until we can hold off no longer," Amelia finished.

"What are we holding off on?" Penelope asked, cheerful, sunny attitude inconsistent with the tone of the conversation. Coop and Amelia turned to her.

"Returning to the campus," Amelia lied easily.

Coop checked her with his eyes, noting that the lie came almost too quickly. She was, as she had attested, adept at keeping her ear to the ground. Perhaps she had been stepped on before, and had learned her lesson much too well.

"We had considered prolonging our… meeting," she said. "But I really must get back to the station."

"And I to my blackboard," Coop said, rising as Amelia grabbed her pocketbook.

"Well, I can't tell you how wonderful it is to have met you," Penelope said earnestly. The blonde wrapped her arms around Amelia, who stiffened, but reciprocated with a light touch on the woman's shoulder blade. "You should really bring her around more often, Cooper-dooper. We have a game night at their apartment most every weekend. Food and friends, you know? The more the merrier."

Amelia stood flabbergasted, mouth bobbing like a dazed fish.

"Yes, well," Coop said, swooping in to avert any social train wreck which was almost certain to occur with Penelope steering the conversation. "That may well happen, but we need to return to work, as do you." He threw a pointed glance behind the counter, eyeing the pot-bellied manager. The self-named Sammy of Sammy's wielded a greasy spatula like a scepter at court. The balding burger king was staring viciously at the back of Penelope's head.

"Oh, gosh! You're right sweetie. Amelia, a pleasure!" she said, backing away with pencil in hand, shuffling to the entrance to take care of a large family who just walked in.

"Come along, before she gets free again," Coop said, allowing Amelia to pass before him. The pair made their way past Sammy's chrome-plated exterior and walked to the end of the corner. From there, Amelia needed to cross north to get to the KRVT station, and Coop had to turn left to return to CalTech. He suddenly found himself rather nervous.

"I'm sorry I couldn't give you any further information," he said.

"It's not your fault you can't confirm anything. I suspect no one can."

"I'm not no one."

"No… I guess you're not," Amelia said gently.

They waited awkwardly at the street corner, the _ting_-_ting_ of the street car bell, honk of automobile horns, and whisps of papers at newsstands flooding their ears.

"I guess this is good-bye," she said, extending her hand.

Coop attempted to hide a cringe. "I thought you weren't a fan of unnecessary physical contact."

Amelia looked surprised herself. "You're right, I'm not."

"So this is…"

"Non-negotiable social protocol. I always shake my sources' hands."

_Sources_. His nervousness dissipated, replaced by a low feeling, something that didn't sit well in his gut. He'd felt it earlier today. Had felt it after all of his proposal rejections: disappointment.

"Yes, well," he slipped his large hand into her petite one, the fleshly curve between the base of her thumb and index finger soft, and, if he were being entirely honest with himself, not wholly unwelcome. "Goodbye, Dr. Fowler."

"Amelia."

"Amelia," he echoed.

She was three-quarters of the way across the cross walk when he registered her departure. She didn't look back as she retreated, disappearing through a side door to the station. He wiped his hand compulsively at his side, but with significantly less vigor than usual.

Coop felt slightly ragged after his highly emotional day. He ambled back, hands dug deep in his pockets. He was, for the first time in ages, _not_ in a hurry to return to work. Not that he didn't want to work; he was merely befuddled, which rendered him uninspired, undriven, and completely lacking in motivation.

When he returned to his office, the letter was there. He knew it would be. The blue and gold crest was stamped on the letterhead, the Berkeley motto _Let There Be Light_ embossed gingerly on the upper-right hand corner. Four paragraphs, outlining his proposal, a few adjustments, and a time line that continued on into perpetuity, should his performance be up to scratch. As if it was ever _not_ up to scratch. Oppenheimer's flourishing signature at the bottom should have lifted him to the emotional rafters, yet he was nonplussed. The confidentiality agreement included in the letter effectively nixed all future communication with Amelia on professional grounds. He had nothing more to offer her, unless they wanted to talk about something besides his isotope project. Which he could…

If his eidetic memory served him well, he knew that they had meandered more than once off scientific topics today. The only people he had ever done that with had been Leo, Howie and Penelope, not to mention his family. There was no reason he couldn't see her outside of the professional sphere. No reason except for the queasy feeling in his gut that he had experienced since her departure. It was human nature. Science. People gravitated toward suitable companions with complimentary interests. He'd interviewed plenty of candidates before Leo took the roommate position. It was simply a matter of compatibility. And why should he disregard someone so compatible when she had effectively fallen right into his lap? Or, vice versa. He had, _technically_, fallen into hers. She was a woman. A woman who could be his friend. A friend of the opposite sex. But nothing binding. Simply a friend. But not a _girl_friend.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he grabbed his fountain pen and stationary.

_Dr. Amelia Fowler,_

_As you indicated in our earlier interaction, I have received a letter of acceptance for my proposal submitted to the University of California at Berkeley. My superior will be Dr. Julius Robert Oppenheimer, current professor of theoretical physics. Though reluctant to disclose specific details, I can inform you that your notions of secrecy this afternoon are not totally unfounded. Within the acceptance letter came a nondisclosure contract backed by the United States Military, with the signatory fully susceptible to prosecution should the confidentiality agreement be breached. Therefore, I will be, alas, unable to correspond with you in that professional regard. _

_However, I am not prohibited from basic communal interaction. Our conversation today was not tedious, unpleasant, or unproductive by any means. This instance filled me with genuine astonishment. I'm sure you understand that I'm in want of stimulation. The laymen, and their lack of knowledge and scientific disregard make most social interactions difficult for me. Your presence I would categorize as a rather pleasant surprise, to use the common vernacular. As such, I would not be opposed to another encounter, should you wish to continue the acquaintance. What I lack in journalistic source material I make up for immensely in intellect, as you may well know. _

_ Regards,_

_ Dr. Sheldon L. Cooper _

_B.S., M.S., M.A., Ph.D., Sc.D._

It was one of the most difficult missives Coop had ever written. He stood at the post box for nearly ten minutes before sliding it through the metal lip. He couldn't measure emotion quantitatively, but he wagered he was more nervous for this response than he had been for Oppenheimer's. His nerves were quelled just two days later, when he found her reply.

_Dr. Cooper, _

_Thank you very much for what information you chanced to provide in our previous interaction. I know you were not bound by any contract at the time of my asking, and will not stoop to such a level as to inquire further about any future work should we continue our acquaintance. In that regard, I would be more than happy (though 'happy' is an absolute; I'm not sure where this 'more than' weaseled its way into everyday dialect) to meet you again for a social engagement. Enclosed you will find my address at the university, as I see you've already found the radio station's. I look forward to your call._

_ Sincerest regards,_

_ Dr. Amelia F. Fowler_

_P.S. You don't have to use double negatives when requesting my presence. _

Upon receipt of her reply, Coop had the most productive day of equation solving since his semester began. One might even say he smiled.

_**Despite the mountain of technicalities included, I had such fun writing this chapter. It was, admittedly, almost egregiously long. But the information was necessary, and I hope it all came across clearly enough. As always, feedback (critique or praise) is more than welcome. If things are unclear, please let it be known and I will attempt to clarify in succeeding chapters. Historical jargon aside, I HAD to include Penny/Penelope on their first date. Just because. Reviews heartily appreciated.  
**_

_**-A**_


	7. Professionalism, Smeshionalism

_**Usual disclaimers apply. Enjoy :D**_

**November 1941**

"Here are those calculations you asked for," Coop said, sidling up to the massive desk in one of the auxiliary offices at Berkeley. Van Gogh prints interspersed with other unknown elementary landscapes papered the walls of the spacious office. The double-paneled blackboard on the west wall was attached to a squeaky, retractable pulley system; that way, upon completing arithmetic on the first board, the office occupant could simply maneuver the board forward and above, revealing a pristine, clean board beneath, ready for his charismatically erratic chalk scrawl. Everyone on the hall knew when Julius Robert 'Oppie' Oppenheimer had filled the 5 by 12 foot board with notes, numbers, and enough Greek letters to make Homer shudder, simply by the squeal of wheels on track.

Coop waved his hand in the air, attempting to clear away the residual cigarette smoke and chalk dust. A hollow thumping made him jump, but the man behind the desk seemed unaffected. _Thwack. _Oppie plucked the limp white stick from his lips and brushed his pinky finger over the edge, a smattering of ash falling into one of the four glass bowls he had at cardinal points on his desk.

"Thanks, Coop," he said, returning to his perusal.

"Where do you want them?"

"Here, now, with me, with me," he said, extending a hand, forehead just inches from what appeared to be a topographical map. It was laid out over his desk, the mountainous terrain actually extending into the air, a three-dimensional scale. Coop could only assume he had performed some basic calculations and had placed books or blocks underneath the map at corresponding points of altitude, replicating a crude but appropriate depiction of whatever terrain he was analyzing. The hollow thumping picked up again, this time in an odd, syncopated succession of downbeats.

_Thwack. Thwack, thwack!_

"Come and look at this, Coop," he said.

"I've got to get the train back to Pasadena." Coop pulled his watch out of his vest and dangled it pointedly.

"You've got time, come see," he said.

Coop sighed and walked around to the other side of the desk.

"So… what do you think about New Mexico?" Oppie asked.

"Forty-seventh state in the Union, approximately 120,000 square miles, considered one of the 'mountain states', as seen from your crude rendering—"

"Crude!?"

_Thwack, bum, bum, thw-, thw-, thw-, thwack!_

"The best you could do under the circumstances," Coop continued. "Semi-arid climate, sports a surprisingly impressive wild turkey population—"

"Did you know Benjamin Franklin wanted the U.S. symbol to be the wild turkey?" Oppie said.

The interruption stopped Coop's factual recital. The noise continued.

_Thwack! Thwack, thwack, thwack, bum, thwack._

"'For in Truth the Turkey is in Comparison a much more respectable Bird, and withal a true original Native of America_..._'That's what he told his daughter anyway. Never said he actually _objected_ to the eagle per say, but the turkey? Honestly! It looks like some creature Carroll cobbled together for one of his fantasy stories."

"You're reimbursing me for my ticket should I miss my board time," Coop threatened.

"I've reimbursed much more expensive for things far less important," Oppie replied. "Turkey population aside, New Mexico. Your opinion."

_Thwack, th-, th-, th-, THWACK!_

Coop shut and opened his eyes in frustration. It had been a long week. "I already told you most of what I know about New Mexico… well, a shred of what I know about the state. I've not researched it heavily, but I recall the bulk of its encyclopedia entry from a 1937 collection I have."

"I don't care what you _know_ about it. What do you _think_ about it?"

_Thwack._

"What do you mean what do I think?"

_Thwack._

"Will it work?" Oppie asked, voice rising.

_Thwack!_

"What work?"

_Thwack!_

"New Mexico!"

_Thwack! Th-, th-, thw-, THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!_

"What is that infernal racket?!" Coop yelled.

Oppie shuffled to one of the walls covered in paintings, and started banging with his open palm.

"Richie! Enough with the bongos already! It's Thanksgiving, go HOME!" he returned to his desk and slid the map to one side, taking a large pen from the inside of his tweed vest and circling one of the dots on the paper. "Richard and his bongos again," he explained. "You know, you look like a bongo man, Coop. Perhaps you could join the youngster for a bongo bonanza! Might do wonders for your productivity."

"I highly doubt I will ever take up something so headache-inducing. Maybe in another life, but even then, only very briefly and in a fit of disorder."

"Do you play anything?"

"Oppie, I'm ready to go home. What does my playing anything have to do with New Mexico?"

"If we build the facility there we'll need room for all of our instruments, scientific and musical."

Coop's ears perked up.

"So they've given the go-ahead? They're going to build us a laboratory?"

"No and not exactly," Oppie said. "You're still working on theoretical calculations. It'll be at least another 18 months before we're ready for applied testing. The site we'd need, should we use the centrifugal extraction… Not to mention mining the ore itself, it'd require… not just the labs. They'd have to be far enough away from a city, so that if something goes wrong, it wouldn't injure civilians. So we'd have to find some place to stay. Dormitories, and a cafeteria, which would necessitate a kitchen, which would necessitate some kind of grocer, which would bring in more outside people to operate it, not to mention a staff to run the complex—"

"They're going to build a town in the middle of nowhere to test it?"

"They've already considered another place in Tennessee. Oak Ridge," he said, popping the harsh ending consonants. "But something's going to have to happen to give them the final push into making an investment like that."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean FDR's going to get us in this war for real. Not just denounce blockaded supply routes and lend the Soviets a few more million."

"There's already been an attack. The _Kearny_ was torpedoed," Coop said.

"Not a big enough loss. A minor casualty, when you consider what mainland Europe is going through," Oppie said.

"What are we waiting for?"

"I don't rightly know myself, which is not something I say very often. Don't go saying you heard me confess it, or I will denounce you for the slanderous scab that you are," Oppie said with a serious smile. "I suspect that when it does happen, we'll all know, and they'll be no going back."

Coop looked down at the circled area on the map, nodding his approval. "It's far enough away and the terrain seems level enough for construction."

"My thoughts exactly. Go home, Coop. Good work this week, even if your math is wrong."

"_Your _math was wrong! The equations didn't balance."

"We'll agree to disagree."

"You can't disagree with a fact."

"Don't you have a train to catch?" Oppie asked knowingly.

Coop walked up to him, hand extended. "I'm sure I've missed it by now. I'll be late for Thanksgiving dinner, you should know."

Oppie withdrew his wallet from the folds of his suit and placed a few crisp bills into Coop's hand.

"Late for dinner with the family?"

"Something like that," Coop said.

"It's a good thing Franklin didn't have it his way," Oppie said. "Or we wouldn't get to enjoy the turkey. Celebrating in Pasadena?"

"Yes. You?"

"As a child it was always on my father's boat. Loved heading out in that sporty thing; Thanksgiving on a yacht! I fear, however, I must forgo my dietary overindulgence and devote myself to yours and other's work for the time being." He waved a hand toward an end table, where a chaotic collection of stacked papers seemed to have solidified into an imposing column of white. "I have been remiss in my reviews, unlike yourself. Enjoy your holiday, Coop."

"You, too."

"Oh, I will," Oppie said, hunkering down with Coop's calculations.

Coop returned to the reception area of the physics building at Berkeley and nodded at Anita.

"Why you can't hang your coat and hat on the wrack like everybody else I will never understand," she said, retrieving his garments from underneath the counter.

"I've explained it numerous times. I have no idea where those other people have been, and what hijinks they get up to. There could be radioactive material on improperly laundered clothing, Anita."

"I guess in a building full of scientists, that could happen."

"Best to take every precaution," Coop said. "I hope your Thanksgiving is filled with an appropriate amount of sentimentality and tryptophan."

Coop skedaddled out the door, hightailing it around the corner of the physics building on the Berkeley campus. He had gotten the time off at CalTech, but, deadlines be damned, he had to go over some numbers with the team at Berkeley. His project had not been railroaded, not exactly. But every week Oppenheimer would come in with new variables to add, new conditions under which to simulate an experiment, and, always, a new deadline to meet. Coop knew Oppie was the one coming up with the new additions to the project. He was, after all, a big-picture sort of thinker. Cinematic in scope. Unlike Coop, he lacked the patience for the details, which would explain why his arithmetic was atrocious. Coop could sense, though, that Oppie wasn't the one dictating the staff's behavior. That was coming from someone else. Someone who sported a white, triangular beard with a top hat speckled in stars and stripes, pointing an accusing finger from the top of a poster at most male passersby.

Coop had done it last year. Signed up for selective service. He hadn't even really known what he was doing, since the department had distributed the preliminary papers. He thought it simply another personnel form, until he found the column asking for physical handicaps, allergies and the like. The eagle (not turkey) seal of the federal government stood out starkly against his signature. The draft had started last month; he'd noticed that some of the younger boys, those that worked at the bus station, some of Sammy's regulars, even an undergrad or two, had simply disappeared. He was older, a plus. And educated, which was practically an exemption. But 'practically' was not an absolute. That lack of certainty, coupled with Oppie's not-so-veiled comments about impending war had him rethinking his Thanksgiving dinner.

The two-mile walk to Atsby station was doable. He'd considered a cab, what with Oppie's money burning a hole in his billfold, but the weather was mild, and he'd be cooped up in the train car for the next few hours. Besides, the Berkeley-Oakland public transit system was questionably sanitary at best, a stagnant cesspool of decay and micro bacterium at worst. Coop avoided the buses, cabs and cable cars. But his interest in and the overall necessity of trains kept him from his occasional sensory overload.

Coop removed his pocket watch from his vest as he loped through a cross walk. Even if he caught the one o'clock, he would surely miss his connection at the larger station in San Francisco. He slowed his pace, mulling over the best way to notify the group of his unplanned tardiness. Leo would be at home, but they weren't so well-off as to have a phone in the lobby of their building, let alone their apartment. Howie was out, he'd already said he would be at work on the base until five. Which only left one person.

_Amelia_.

Coop hurried on to the station, requesting connection and arrival times from the information booth at the entrance.

"Do you have a telephone?" Coop asked the attendant.

"Booth's over around the corner," he said with a smile. He was grey all over, glasses hovering so far down his nose Coop was astounded he kept them on his face. He'd have no worries when Uncle Sam started calling men by the thousands.

"Thank you."

He rounded the corner and found the receiver hanging at the side of the box-like communication device. He spoke briefly with the operator, giving her one of the few telephone numbers that he now knew by heart.

* * *

"Birdie!" Scout called. "Birdie! You've got a call."

The newsroom was still buzzing, holiday or no. Amelia was hunched over her desk, reviewing copy for tomorrow's broadcast. She'd had the honor of interviewing Rafael Lorente de Nó, and was looking forward to discussing the electro-chemical basis of nerve functions with him on air. This interview, coupled with the night's forthcoming Thanksgiving meal, was increasing her enjoyment exponentially. It was shaping up to be one of the better holidays Amelia had spent upon striking out on her own.

"BIRDIE!" Scout yelled again. "The phone. A call. Make it snappy."

"And happy Thanksgiving to you, too, Scout," Amelia said, taking the receiver from their resident communications officer. If you could call him that. He was barely seventeen, and had disconnected more sources than he had put through. He was the nephew of the station manager, but he didn't have the alarming cut-throat demeanor of his uncle. Only when Mr. Banks was at the station did Scout stand at attention, barking every time someone placed or received a call. On the whole though, he was a bright boy. Harmless. Amelia peered into Mr. Banks' office, then gave Scout a good-natured nudge over the head, placing the receiver at her ear.

"Dr. Fowler speaking."

Scout wagged his tongue at Amelia and kicked back, hands behind his head and feet up on the desk.

"Oh, Coop! So great to hear from you. I've gotten the tea you requested, but are you sure I can't bring anything else? It's going to be a lot of people."

Scout turned his head up as he listened.

"What?" Amelia asked, turning so the boy couldn't see her expression fall. "I thought you were going to be back by five."

"…"

"It's just that, we've already said I'd arrive at six, and that would leave me there to muddle my way through your tedious roommate's conversation."

"…"

"Yes, I've bonded somewhat with Penelope, but I would feel much more assured if you were there to act as buffer. You're like an osmotic barrier for dialogue."

"…"

"Of course I really mean that."

"…"

"I understand completely. It's not your fault that the trains run differently on holidays. I'll simply have to amuse myself."

"…"

"Contrary to what you think, I'm perfectly capable of functioning without you for an hour. It'll be awkward, having only just met three of our dinnermates, but I've overcome much more than banal conversation."

"…"

"I'll be sure to notify Leo. I will see you at seven, approximately."

"…"

"Good day."

"Plans gone off the tracks?" Scout asked, taking the phone back from her.

"Only some minor alterations," Amelia countered. "What about yourself? Any big plans for the night?"

"If you count stuffing myself to where my stomach won't hold no more, then yeah!" Scout said, removing his feet from his desk. He plopped a round cheek on one of his fists. "_Big_ plans. Mom's been working on the turkey since before I left this morning."

"Sounds delectable. And from what I've seen of your work-day lunches, I expect your stomach to be stretched to capacity."

"Birdie, I never know _what_ you're sayin', but you sure do sound swell when you're sayin' it."

"A compliment I shall treasure eternally," Amelia said, smiling.

"BIRDIE!"

Scout's posture straightened reflexively, as his and Amelia's heads whipped toward their station manager's door.

"Better go," Amelia said. She walked, briskly, into one William 'Big Bill' Banks' office.

A rotund man of fifty-two with a receding hairline, Big Bill Banks was not a newsman in the reporting sensibility. He was a salesman. He could sell a story, make truth of falsity and entertainers of dullards. He could, easily, discount Dr. Amelia Farrah Fowler, two decades younger and far more educated than he could ever dream to be. Which is why she had to tread lightly. She thought back to when she was hired. The first meeting; she had barely said three words during her interview.

"Amelia Fowler?"

"_Doctor_ Fowler."

"Doctor? I asked for a scientist, dammit!" Big Bill had said, tossing her CV onto the desk. "Somebody who could read some copy on air without sending all our listeners flying to KAVQ. You know what any of this means?" he asked, brandishing a handful of papers at her like a weapon.

She took the pages demurely and scanned the lines. A very basic story on chemical reactions, harnessed and refined, which chemists had exploited to manufacture a new drug.

"I understand all of it."

"Great. Fowler, heh. Carson said you'd be good for this. Just don't _foul _it up, okay? Ha, ha, ha!" He laughed, big and booming, until his laughs turned to dry heaves. He inhaled deeply from his cigarette.

She however, had not laughed. Her first mistake.

"Guess you're hired."

"Thank you very much, Mr. Banks." She rose and extended her hand.

"That's Big Bill to you." He didn't rise, but waved her off with his head. She'd reached the door before he called out: "Birdie!"

"Excuse me?"

"Birdie, that's what we'll call you. None of this, 'Dr. Fowler' nonsense. Too formal for my station."

"You can call me Amelia," she said.

"Birdie, you just bring me some stories about microbes and asteroids and an acid that eats through somebody's skin. We'll be fine," he said.

She understood, from his tone, that it was more of a command than suggestion. And Birdie, to her chagrin, had stuck and spread.

"Yes, Bill?" Amelia asked, snapping back to the present. She tried to sound as placating as possible without coming off annoyed. She desperately wanted to leave for Coop's apartment. With him gone, she could put her journalistic skills to use, and sniff out some details with which he had been rather unforthcoming. She had Leo, Penelope, Howie and Bernadette as first-hand sources.

"We're scrapping the show with that Spaniard. Train derailed out in Utah, or something."

"What?" Amelia asked, composure fading. "Is he alright?"

"Of course he's alright. How'd you think I knew about the cancellation? Telegram came this morning, from—" he squinted at the name. "Low-rin-tay. Said he'd be unable to make it for the broadcast."

"And you let me go over copy for tomorrow's show all day, knowing he wouldn't be available?"

"Don't chirp at me, Bird. We'll run one of your prerecorded shows. Watch your tone, or we won't run _anything _of yours."

Amelia had to hold her breath and count to ten. She found herself doing it more and more in the presence of Mr. Banks. He disliked it, she knew, for he was an impatient man. But without that distance, she was sure to insult herself right out of a job.

"Of course, Bill. I didn't mean to insinuate anything. Will you need me at all tomorrow?"

"We'll get whoever's on standby to introduce you. You're good for the week."

In her three years at the station, she'd come to learn when she was released. She stalked back to her desk and grabbed her notebooks. She shoved pencils, papers, and a whole peach she'd been saving to munch on for the next day's broadcast into her bag. Amelia gathered herself, not wanting to make a scene as she exited the newsroom.

She bypassed Scout on her way out.

"All good there, Birdie?"

She turned around, bag in hand, but rested a hip heavily on the edge of his desk.

"What's your name, Scout?"

"It's Scout."

"No, what's your real name?"

"Why?"

"Don't you ever get tired of people calling you 'Scout'?"

"I don't know. I never really thought about it. Whatcha so hung up for?"

"You realize I have three degrees and people address me the same way they would a parakeet?"

"It's just cause we like you, 's all."

"No. It's because the boss dubbed me 'Birdie' my first day, and while he's in charge, I will only ever be Birdie."

Scout was silent for a moment. He fiddled with a pencil at the edge of his desk. When he was particularly bored, he'd drum out a beat on the edge of a desk.

"Uncle Bill started calling me 'Scout' when I was ten. Said, if I ever grew up to be a newsman, I'd need to be able to find out the facts. You know, 'scout 'em out, he'd said."

Amelia nodded, then turned to get her hat and coat from the stand in the corner.

"Dennis," he called, head down and eyes averted. Like it was bad that he was telling her. "That's my name."

"Dennis," Amelia returned. She marched back to his desk and extended her hand. "Pleasure to meet you Dennis. I'm Amelia."

He rose, buttoned his jacket, and shook her hand. "Nice to know you, Amelia."

"Happy Thanksgiving."

"Happy Thanksgiving."

Amelia left KRVT, disheartened over her program's cancellation. At least she'd made another ally in the newsroom. Her eagerness for the night's dinner tamped down any other negative feelings. It was appropriate for the holiday. She was thankful, indeed, to be seeing Coop that night.

_**Reviews appreciated! **_


	8. Atypical Thanks

_**Usual disclaimers apply. Enjoy! **_

Amelia's thankfulness did not suppress her nerves. Her skill was not in polite conversation, but in questioning. She hardly thought Coop's social circle would appreciate an interrogation, and on a holiday no less. But when she floundered for something to say she sometimes asked questions others deemed "personal" or "inappropriate." She was a _journalist_, for crying out loud. What kind of questions was she supposed to ask?

And yet, it would only be an hour. She had told Coop as much: "_Contrary to what you think, I'm perfectly capable of functioning without you for an hour._" Amelia hoped she could prove herself right. So, she sized up the competition as she rode the cable car to the city centre proper.

First and easiest: Leo. She'd met Coop's roommate two weeks ago upon her first excursion to his apartment. He was congenial enough, amiable, with an oddly muscular shaping despite his smaller frame. He was also a physicist, which was an assurance; she would never have assumed Coop would toil with living with someone who was _not _a scientist. He was far less socially awkward than Coop or herself, which, Amelia thought, toed the line between courtesy and tedium.

Whatever social awkwardness Leo had once harbored was probably dispelled by Penelope, the other half of a seemingly ill-suited pair bond, as Coop liked to term it. She was everything that Amelia wasn't: bubbly, sunny-faced, exuberant, and a conventional beauty. Blonde and tanned to resemble a shade of buffed sandalwood, she was the Aphrodite to Leo's Hephaestus. She was nice, but likewise tough, which seemed to make up for her lack of intellectual standing within the group. She had interacted with Penelope the most out of those meant to attend the dinner party, and had, upon her most recent recollection, only garnered five questionable glances.

She moved on to the recently wedded pair of Howie and Bernie. Howard she had met once in passing, an uncomfortable encounter involving herself, Coop, Leo, and the peculiarly dressed Army engineer in the stairwell of Los Robles. He had asked to touch her to make sure she was real, because, "_no way in hell could Coop find himself a female friend_." After a verbal deflection from Leo, Coop and Amelia resumed their descent with Howard needling at Leo the entire way back up the stairwell. The last question she heard was "Did Coop finally follow up on that threat and purchase some mail-order companion to cater to his every whim after you refused?" She found that both insulting and interesting, but decided to shirk it off as more an insult to Coop than to her person. Coop even felt the need to apologize for the interaction afterward, something she realized Coop rarely did. She understood, from what Coop had told her about Howard, not to take him all that seriously. He only had a Master's degree.

Which left Bernadette, of whom Amelia knew the least. When she'd asked Coop about the woman, all he said was petite, usually soft-spoken, and terrifying. He did say Howie had mellowed since their relationship had started, which Amelia notched in the plus column for Bernadette. Any woman willing to take on a Jewish only-son for a lifetime deserved some sort of recognition.

The bell on the cable car tolled as they bumped across a perpendicular track, lurching to a stop as the passengers deboarded. Amelia rearranged her items, pocketbook exchanged for a practical, cross-shoulder handbag so she would have two hands to carry her contribution to tonight's meal. Zipping across the street, her mind now wandered to the evening's meal. She'd had visions of edible grandeurs whizzing about her brain for the past two weeks: a sumptuous turkey baked for hours until golden-brown and crisp on the outside; turnips and carrots and potatoes swimming in butter; a cornucopia centerpiece spewing harvest veggies, squash and miniature pumpkins littering Coop and Leo's small kitchen table; and for dessert, pumpkin or pecan pie drizzled in a sweet, steaming sauce. Her stomach wailed like the Pilgrims during their first winter on the east coast.

Standing outside Los Robles, Amelia double-checked her wrist-watch. Five fifty-five. She shouldered open the lobby door and began the climb to 4-A.

_Smile_, she told herself. She was more curious than nervous, almost _excited _at the prospect of watching Coop interact with so many people. Coop didn't particularly like people. Neither did she. No… she liked people. She just wasn't a particularly social person. Which was a wonder, what with her current occupation. She knocked on the door three times and waited.

"Amelia!" Penelope said, flinging the door open. "Welcome! Happy Thanksgiving!"

"The same to you," Amelia said.

"Come in, come in! Oh, you brought something, that's so nice. You didn't have to go through the trouble."

"It was indeed troublesome, but I understand it's something that is considered appropriate for a guest to do upon attendance at a dinner party. I'm no wine connoisseur, nor much of a cook, but I prepare an above-average _sufganiyah _if previous reviews of the dish are considered."

Penelope took the plate from her and led her inside. "I haven't heard of soofguh— sufgunky… that dish before."

"Don't sweat it Penelope, it's a jelly-doughnut," Howie said, popping the container cover off the dish. "And from the looks of it, a damn fine batch. Though hardly anyone makes better Hanukkah deserts than my ma'."

"Oh? So it's like a Jewish food?" Penelope asked.

Amelia's face flushed slightly. "As I said, I'm not that skilled a cook. I really only know how to make this one thing. And sandwiches. I make _great _sandwiches. I understand it's not the conventional dish for this holiday, but I was not inclined to show up empty-handed…" she paused. "Or with sandwiches, for that matter."

"Oh sweetie," Penelope said, noticing her slight discomfort. "We're hardly the people for what you'd call 'conventional' celebrations anyway. Don't mean to disappoint if you were expecting some lavish feast, but Thanksgiving dinner's going to be like it is most every Thursday night: pizza!"

Amelia's eyes drifted over Coop and Leo's apartment. As Penny explained, the pair had not gone out of their way to host anything so traditional as a Thanksgiving feast. There were no cornucopias, pallets of oranges and reds and yellows, baskets filled with cornhusks, or hay bales scattered idly in corners. Not that there would be, with Coop's finicky preferences. There were, however, two paper turkeys attached to the icebox door, colored crudely and positioned beak to beak.

"Leo and I had some time this afternoon," Penelope explained, following her gaze to the turkeys. "You're no cook and I'm no artist, so this was the best we could get for décor. Wine, Amelia?"

"I don't usually indulge…"

"It's a holiday, you're allowed a mite of indulgence," a petite blonde woman said, emerging from the back hall. "You must be Amelia. I'm Bernadette, Howard's wife."

"That's my Bernie!" Howard said, eyeing the _sufganiyah_ like a hyena.

"Nice to make your acquaintance," Amelia returned.

"You're a… reporter, right?"

"Some might say that. I'm actually a biologist with an emphasis in neurological studies and neurophysiology. But—"

"You had to get a job outside of your field to get a job," Bernadette finished.

"Exactly! How'd you—"

"Same with me. I have my doctorate in microbiology, but I'm working at the pharmacology ward at McCornack General. It's new, used to be a hotel or something."

"Demoted to nurse?" Amelia asked.

"Unfortunately."

"The same happened with one of my fellow doctoral graduates. Unless something drastic alters the job market, I fear we'll be resigned to inferior positions."

"Don't get your hopes up," Howard said knowingly. He brushed some invisible lint off of his drab green uniform.

"I can see why Coop likes you," Penelope said, passing Amelia a glass of wine. "You two sound so similar."

She'd not drink a lot, Amelia thought to herself. But it would be rude to refuse. She took a gracious sip as Penelope led her to a large couch in the center of the room.

Amelia had been to the boys' apartment enough with Coop to know the layout. She also knew that the seat to her immediate left, like the bench underneath the red maple at Caltech, was reserved for Coop.

"So, Amelia," Penelope began, her bright, heart-shaped face resting easily on her propped right hand, "tell us _everything_."

Amelia was taken aback. "Pardon?"

"Oh yes, we're dying to know," Bernadette said, sitting to Amelia's right. "How did it all start?"

"What start?"

"I knew you two would get on this topic," Howard said, snatching one of Amelia's fried treats from a plate. He stuffed it into his mouth. "Leo needs to hurry and get back soon."

"Howie, shut it," Bernadette said fiercely.

_Terrifying indeed_.

"Coop won't tell us a thing," Penelope clarified. "Just all of a sudden he has this girlfriend and keeps her all to himself."

"Oh, no… I see your confusion," Amelia said, letting out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. She took another sip for fortification. "Coop and I are not quote, boyfriend and girlfriend. The relationship is not nearly serious enough for such classification."

"Then what exactly are you to each other?" Bernadette asked. "I don't mean to pry, I hardly know you. But we'd appreciate your candor. Coop can be so tight-lipped about these things."

"Really? I find him quite open about most, if not all topics. Refreshingly so." Amelia was uncomfortable. She had hoped to come in as the interrogator, not the suspect. She needed to get them off of this topic, of which she was woefully inexpert.

"See!" Penelope squealed, sloshing her wine glass.

"I'm sorry," Amelia said. "But I'm rather confused."

"Let me clarify it for you, doll," Howard said.

"Please don't call me that," Amelia answered seriously.

"Sure, sure… sorry," Howard said, dubious. Amelia appreciated the glare his tiny wife threw him. She jumped on the pause like a kid on a trampoline, using it to change topics.

"Do you not find it odd that, given your stature, from a psychological perspective, you should be disinclined to shorten your names? Howard to Howie and Bernadette to Bernie increases the diminutive, so to speak," Amelia said.

"What?" Howard asked.

"It only seems that, given your frames, past ridicule would keep you from desiring future ridicule, and the diminutives that you use to address each other, though a possible cherished 'pet-name', could hinder you in the social and professional sphere through emasculation and suppression. Though I'm not one to put all my marbles in the corner of base psychology, there seems to be a correlation between diminution of titles and a minimization of professional respect."

Penelope and Bernadette gaped and Howard screwed up his face.

"What the—"

"Pizza's here!" Leo said, traipsing in with four boxes of baked cheese and tomato sauce pies. Amelia sat back yet still seemed to slouch, hands resting lightly on her knees while the others made dismissive noises.

"Yeah, pizza," Leo said, confused. "Dinner time."

"Shouldn't we wait on Coop?" Amelia asked.

"I completely forgot!" Penelope said. "Where is he?" she asked, glancing at Leo.

"Don't look at me."

"He'll be back by seven, approximately," Amelia offered, wondering why no one had questioned his absence until this moment. Coop had led her to believe he was the social glue that held this group of misfits together.

"He missed his train?" Leo asked.

"He was detained by Oppenheimer later than expected, and thus had to catch the one that ran two hours later. The train schedule apparently deviates from the norm on holidays."

"Oh joy," Howard said, sniffing at the cheese. "I'm hungry."

"Get another beer and shut up," Leo said, handing Howard a bottle.

"So, Leo," Amelia said, directing the attention outwards again. "Pizza, on Thanksgiving. Certainly unorthodox." She took another sip of wine and relaxed. Her face felt a tinge warmer.

"We're not quite _The American Woman's Cookbook_. We subsist on take-out and cafeteria meals at the university."

"But it does mean we get to hang out a lot," Bernadette offered. "It's sure swell that we're all here."

"Not everyone…" Howard said sadly.

"Pen pals don't count, Howie."

"Who said anything about pen pals? I was talking about Coop."

"He'll be along shortly," Amelia reassured him, puzzled at the exchange between the married couple.

"So Amelia," Leo began. "Coop... for anything. Certainly unorthodox."

Amelia narrowed her eyes at Leo, who had moved to stand behind Penelope. She could almost feel Bernadette and Howard leaning forward.

"I'm going to have to answer questions no matter what, right?"

"We can do this one of two ways," Penelope joked. "The easy way, or we can hold you off the rooftop by your ankles, like we used to do to little Joey Morttinger back in Nebraska."

"I've withstood interrogation by the Red Army. I can certainly hold my own against the likes of you four."

Penelope and Leo's eyes widened, and Bernadette let out a little gasp.

"I was merely engaging in the social convention of pulling one's leg. Perhaps my delivery could have been a little less serious."

A smile broke out over Leo's face. "I think you'll fit in alright around here."

"More wine?" Penelope asked.

"I suppose," Amelia said, settling in for the barrage of questions. She only hoped she didn't reveal anything Coop was holding back.

Bernadette began. "Where did you meet Coop?"

"Surely Penelope has told you that?"

"No! Not at all! He wouldn't say a word to me after he brought you by Sammy's that first time. Just started being all condescending, 'none-of-your-beeswax Penelope', and all that crap."

"Well, the first time I met Coop was in the middle of the street. He just ran into me. But I'd hardly call that a meeting. I think I might have insulted him."

"Oh, this is going to be good," Howard said, rubbing his hands together.

"I suppose it all started the day I showed up at CalTech and took his precious spot…"

* * *

Coop didn't so much skip as bumble his way up to his apartment, breathless from his jaunt from the train station. His ever-handy pocket watch told him it was closing in on seven thirty, nearly a half hour later than he told Amelia he'd be. She had seemed, if not distressed, then at least disconcerted over his delay. He was not sure why this caused him pleasure; the thought that she might need him, even only for conversation. He had had far too much time to think on the train: about Oppenheimer, about Germany, Italy, Russia, Europe as a whole and farther, Japan and northern Africa and New Mexico and… her. Just under three months with her. He smiled smugly, knowing he could swoop in and save her from the mind-numbing conversation he was sure his social group reveled in. He climbed the stairs, turned the key, and entered to—

Guffaws. Booming, raucous laughter, with the radio blaring from the windowsill and the apartment overheated from dancing. Leo had turned on the fan, even though his roommate _knew_ not to disturb the airflow this late in November. Penelope was twirling Amelia around and Howard had Bernadette dipped back while some trumpet squealed along the staticky A.M. radio waves. Leo had his right hand over his mouth to muffle his laughter, and a beer in his left. The red-stained glasses and empty bottles pointed toward the liquid culprit of this unbecoming tom foolery, and Coop was more than displeased that Amelia had been hoodwinked to join in due to his tardiness.

"Coop's here!" Leo announced, bouncing out of the chair in the kitchenette. "Time to eat!"

"We'll have to heat the pizza up again," Howard said. "It's gone cold."

"Not that cold. I'll get the oven," Bernadette said, whisking by Amelia and Penelope.

"Time for dinner!" Penelope yelled, following Bernie into the kitchen, Howard close behind. Amelia walked unsteadily to Coop as he removed his carry-all bag.

"I see you've succumbed to these unfortunate influences," Coop said. "I warned you as much."

"I don't think it's so bad. They're extremely nice, Coop."

"Your girl's a real card, there, Coop!" Howard yelled, tossing plates haphazardly in spaces around the table. "Told us _a lot_ more than you have."

"What did you tell them?" Coop asked.

"Just trivial details. How we met, what I do, where I'm from. Honestly, they thought I was some spy from the way you seemed so tight-lipped about it."

Coop guided her gently toward the door. "I was unaware of how much information you wanted released about your person. You are an _investigative_ journalist, am I right? There could have been seemingly unimportant details you would not have had me divulge, and I didn't want to overstep my boundaries."

"No! Everything I've told you I said without reservation. There are no reasons to hold anything back that _I _say. I know how to filter my information." She looked at him knowingly. Despite her alcohol-addled state, she was not likely to let slip his involvement with Oppenheimer. Leo knew nearly as much as she did. Howard bits and pieces. But the other girls were out of loop. Coop was fine with leaving them there.

"I appreciate your discretion with other… aspects, pertaining to my job. Especially with Penelope and Bernadette."

"I'm tipsy. Not stupid."

"What's the seventh digit of pi?"

Amelia wobbled a little. "I can't very well answer that question. I don't know how many slices there are."

"The mathematical constant, not the pastry."

"Oh, Coop! I made pastries!" she said excitedly, stepping towards him.

Her breath smelled like mulled fruit and excitement.

"Let's get some of that into your stomach, shall we?" Coop gestured toward the table where Leo was placing gooey, triangular slices of pizza onto individual plates.

"Happy Thanksgiving! We saved at least one turkey today, all," Leo said.

"The people of New Mexico wouldn't thank us," Coop said.

The rest of the group regarded him quizzically until Amelia chimed in.

"New Mexico has an overabundance of wild turkeys. I'm sure there's population control problems and Thanksgiving gives them some relief."

The others nodded and continued eating, but Coop threw Amelia the smallest of grins.

* * *

"I wish we could do that every night," Amelia said, hefting her weight against the door. The night air was chilly, but it felt good on her hot skin. Coop had suggested they go get some fresh air, also know as 'operation escape the apartment'. Little did she know he would suggest the roof; she really didn't want to be hanging by her ankles from such a tall building. Not that Coop would do such a thing… But she wouldn't put it past Penelope. Her mind flit from one topic to the next: ambient light over Pasadena clouded the stars, the bricks on the rooftop were rough and scraped the bottoms of her shoes, and Coop looked exceedingly handsome tonight. She also noted her alcohol consumption… which had been a lot.

"What? So we would have to escape the canoodling couples when the nights wind down to unnecessary embrace and saliva exchange?" he scoffed.

"Canoodle is a fun word."

"Good Lord," Coop said, guiding her easily away from the ledge of the rooftop. "You can see the city fine from over here as well."

Amelia sat, though on what she was not sure. Either a bench or crate brought up for some unknown roof-top project. All she knew was that Coop was very close to her and that made her giddy. That and the alcohol… yes… couldn't forget about the alcohol.

"I know that you're not in the best state of mind right now, but I need to converse with you over some private professional concerns."

"I assure you, I am in complete possession of my faculties. What's troubling that abnormally attra— that is, active mind?"

"It seems that Oppenheimer has found a site for further experimentation should what we originally discussed need testing."

"All credible projects need testing."

"Indeed. However, I would have to move. The site selection isn't set in stone, but it might as well be. There's no way they'd keep us in California with so many civilians in the metropolitan area."

"And you're troubled because?"

"I just told you. I'd have to move."

"You've moved before. Several times."

"I had always imagined this as my permanent residence, though. Something about leaving this place feels… too unstable. Everything would change."

"How long would the experiment last?"

"There's no way of knowing."

"And you're concerned, in what regard? That there would be no place for you when you came back?"

"There will _always_ be a place for me. I'm Dr. Sheldon Lee Cooper. One doesn't just happen across a mind like mine every day."

Amelia nodded serenely.

"But it took me years to become as comfortable with my living situation as I am currently, and years to grow and cultivate acquaintances and roommates that I can stand."

"So this comes down to you missing Leo?" she asked.

"It's not as simple as that. I'm not even gone yet."

"But you fear that upon your leave, he will… what? Forget you? Acquire a new roommate? You fear Penelope will stop her teasing, Howard will end his passive aggressive statements? Coop, this project is the opportunity of a lifetime. I would never have thought you one to disregard such an achievement over something so sentimental."

"It's not simply that. As you know, I'm very attached to my routine."

"How will a new routine be disrupted? You are fastidiously organized if anything. I have complete faith that you will be able to hone and perfect a new routine within three days of your arrival." She threw her head back to look at the night sky. Though the sun was gone the sky was not black, but a milky purple. The haze was intensified by the rough, sandpaper feel behind her eyelids. "You will miss people and you fear change. That's what it all comes down to."

"I will miss people," Coop admitted, not unkindly.

"Some might term that emotional fancy," Amelia needled at him.

"Some would be wrong."

"One risks becoming fanciful."

"I assure you, I am in no danger of that."

They sat in the soundless air, something that they were so very accustomed to doing. Amelia's life was abuzz with sound, noise, and rabble at the station. She appreciated the quieter moments with Coop. Not that they lacked in conversation. But after three months, she had been able to gauge the best times for speech and the best for silence. Neither was preferred, but both were cherished. Amelia didn't know how late it was. Would she be able to catch a cable car or intercity bus back to her apartment? Maybe not. She would have to call a cab, and on Thanksgiving, the fee would be astronomical. She was astounded by how little she cared.

"What time is it?"

Coop pulled out his pocket watch.

"This may be a little off, because I've not wound it since this morning. Sometime after midnight, I think."

"I've been here for six hours."

"A concern?"

"Observation."

Amelia settled in closer to Coop.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"I'm tired." She never noticed putting her head on his shoulder. "And the juncture of your shoulder combined with your torso length provides the perfect cushion for my head."

"And on that note, I think it's best we get you home."

He took her hand and brought her up gently, spotting her without physical contact as she staggered upright.

"I'm fine."

"That's what my father would say when he was laying face down in the dirt outside."

"I'm upright, not face down."

"Yet. You don't imbibe alcohol frequently. Tomorrow will be a bad morning for you."

"Bad morning, better night," she shot back. "Which reminds me…"

They had made it to the top of the stairs, and she had found a prop on the side of the door to the stairwell. Her stomach was roiling, her head on the verges of a persistent throb. Mozzarella, Parmesan, and strawberry jelly did not mix well. She watched him survey the rooftop carefully, glancing about like a jittery bird. His eyes finally came back to her, and she was oh-so-thankful.

"I'm so pleased, and grateful that you invited me to your Thanksgiving dinner."

"Well, even in your inebriated state, you made for better company than some of the others."

"A compliment?"

"Observation," he echoed.

It was something about his silhouette on the rooftop; the way his clean-shaven jaw worked when he brought his lips together to produce the –_sh_ sound; the way he fidgeted uncertainly at the doorway, arms crossed, overlooking her face with careful aloofness and smug concern.

She lunged, upwards and forwards… _one Mississippi, two Mississippi_… and it was over before it started. He smelled like baby powder and the train station and possibilities. His mouth was hard, but somewhere between the second and third syllables in the first Mississippi, his lips had retracted and bounced back, like a coiled spring. Her head was light and her stomach heavy; she groped blindly for the wall.

"Hmm… Fascinating."

She raised the back of her hand to her mouth. "I'm so sorry. I never meant to be so forward… I…" she turned her head, and led out a silent burp. "Please don't take what I'm about to do as a reflection of what we just did."

Before Coop could ask her any questions, she escaped to the other side of the wall enclosing the stairwell, found a water-logged wash bucket, and hurled her entire Thanksgiving dinner into it.

_**So... here's the sitch. Looks like updates, for the sake of quality and chapter length (I think a good, substantial chapter, for me, is 3,000+) will be scaled back to once (instead of twice) a week. But never fear! This lack of frequency just so happens to coincide with the return of our beloved television characters this week! Hiatus conquered! This was not intended, just very convenient.**_

_**Reviews, follows, favorites, even criticisms, are always appreciated. Thanks to all for sticking with this story. As for today:**_

_** SHAMY FOR THE EMMYS 2013!**_


	9. The Calm Before

_**I do not own TBBT. CBS, Lorre, Prady and Molaro all own something that resembles this. Not me. Enjoy.**_

It wasn't as bad as it could have been, she wagered. It was mainly her head, though the rest of her body felt displaced, as if she were floating through a sea of pudding that made her movements forced and her insides tingly. She wiggled her fingers, arms, legs, and toes to test her dexterity, then gave up and snuggled tighter into her quilt. Half an hour later, and she still couldn't remember what happened after Thanksgiving dinner.

Amelia vaguely recalled a treacherous ascent in a stairwell, a breezy rooftop, bumping along the Pasadena roads, and Coop. Her mortification was made more palpable when she realized she had no clue as to how she got home. She sat upright, reaching blindly toward her bedside table for her glasses. Her double vision adjusted with the help of her lenses, but the fuzziness in her skull intensified upon rising. She stumbled to her modest vanity and peered into the looking glass. Red lines cracked the whites of her eyes and the bags that only stood out after late night grading and copy writing were more pronounced. She was still in her bulky dress from yesterday; her nylons had runs in them from thigh to ankle, and what little make-up she donned was pasty and smeared on her wan skin. She had only looked worse one other time in her life: the night her doctoral dissertation passed.

It was the Friday after Thanksgiving. Class had been cancelled for three days, and would resume Monday. Her on-air interview had been bumped, so she was free to lick her wounds alone in her flat today. Although, she thought, fresh air might do her some good. She opened her window and turned on her fan, then stared, ashamed, at the pens and envelopes that comprised her stationary set. She might as well get it over with.

_Coop,_

_I can't begin to apologize for my behavior last night. I can scarce recall my arrival to my own apartment, and can say with complete transparency that I've not much memory left intact from the evening. Your friends were hospitable, though I hesitate to call them a delight. Their questioning, while not unfounded due to your hesitation to divulge any information about my person, was off-putting. I'm not attempting to justify my actions, but can only assume that this domestic interrogation is why I did not temper my consumption during your absence. With further engagement, I believe I will come to amiably tolerate them as you do and bask in sobriety as I go about it._

_As to my interactions with you, I cannot say. I remember, albeit indistinctly, a rendezvous on your rooftop. What was said, done, or seen remains a mystery to me. I can only extend my sincerest regret for any inappropriate words or actions that may have resulted from my inebriated state. Additionally, you have my thanks for effectively dispatching me to my apartment, and my assurances that such an episode will (as much as I detest affirmation in absolutes) _never _happen again. I hope this does not alter your opinion of me for the worse._

_Embarrassed and regretful,_

_Amelia Fowler_

The weekend passed, and Monday morning arrived with a blankness that Amelia came to appreciate. She'd use the new week to rewrite the old. Before sequestering herself in her cubicle reserved for instructors in UCLA's biology hall, she retrieved her notices from the box in the main office. The holiday weekend found student requests for grade appeals mixed with advertisements for new teaching material being released for the spring semester. She sifted through the stack of correspondence until she happened upon a pristine, off-white envelope with narrow cursive script. Sitting at her desk, she grabbed her letter opener and sliced through the seal.

_Amelia,_

_ I accept your apologies with an admitted attitude of condescending disdain. They are accepted good naturedly, however, as_ I_ cannot say with transparency that I've never indulged in a bit of liquid courage myself. It happened only once, and the incident proved so disturbing that I intend not to relive it. I don't subscribe to the teetotaler philosophy, but perhaps we can restore the relationship to last night's more sober interactions during conversation over dinner, and go from there._

_ Smugly satisfied,_

_ Dr. Cooper_

* * *

**December, 1941**

"But the Mercator projection can _only _hinder. It's never been accurate."

"It was accurate enough to circumnavigate the world."

"If you start arguing for conquistadors, I might as well not even talk to you," Coop said.

Amelia grinned, secretly loving his passionate disapproval over something so distant to him.

"I never said Mercator was correct."

"You never said he was incorrect."

"Negating a statement is not the only oppositional logic out there. Far too black and white," she tried.

"Just like Mercator's map."

"How did we get on this topic again?" Amelia asked.

They had started off with the usual pleasantries. Coop was more animated than usual, his weekend trip to Berkeley pushed back because of Oppenheimer's tendency to jet-set. The pair turned to a revealing discussion concerning the Germans' ill-timed attacks on Moscow. Coop found a report chronicling average temperatures; those frigid nights near the Russian capital were hovering around a devastating negative thirty degrees Fahrenheit. Hoping to spare her any discomfort, he skipped over the parts about frozen bodies piling up around the perimeter of the city boundaries. She need not hear it from him; she'd heard the wire reports at the station. His protective nature, if that's what it was, she found endearing. Let him think her more innocent than she had the right to be.

"Allied deserters and MIAs," he said. "Those attempting to desert with a rudimentary knowledge of terrain, will go around thinking Europe much larger than it is. They'll happen upon an enemy occupied village, because Mercator has convinced them that Europe is the same size as South America!"

It was an early Saturday in December. They were going to a matinee picture, because Amelia was on wire duty at the station the following day. Though free of students and classes, Fridays through Sundays were usually filled with current events. Events people thought important that weren't, and events people dismissed that could easily morph into momentous occurrences. Those on wire duty caught them both, and discerned which went in the 'keep' pile and which the 'dispose'. Three years worth of weekends had her interest piqued in certain stories. Some that came through the wire were more likely to sell papers, or get them better air time, but they would not likely benefit the public. Station manager Big Bill was not one for public benefit, instead preferring personal profit. She felt her integrity wearing away every time she stepped into the newsroom.

"Only you could blame a sixteenth century cartographer for nineteenth century upsets," Amelia said, swooping around a corner with Coop.

"He should have adjusted it. It's a biased map."

"The science of cartography is not exact," Amelia asserted, if only to play devil's advocate. "No rendering, no signifier, is ever an accurate depiction of the actual. That's like saying your equations concerning uranium are just as dangerous as the physical object. Your equations only _represent_, similar to a map. They allow you to answer questions about a topic, but unless you recognize the tangible, the concrete, there will always be more questions."

"But we can't get our hands on everything. I want to study atoms, the minute. I can't very well manipulate them myself. I want to study space, the infinite. There's no way to apply tests to the actuality and totality of space, so we condense them to representation. They are more manageable that way."

"More manageable, but not necessarily accurate."

"And now we're back to the maps," Coop said, approaching the corner newsstand. "You keep talking about this remove between depiction and physicality. But they are linked for the benefit of knowing."

"How many times has the math _always_ been right, but the experiment failed?"

"I couldn't say," Coop said, glancing at a paper or two stacked high on the open-air slab that comprised the newsstand. A forlorn man with a reddish, curly mop of hair leaned easily on the counter, smiling as Coop and Amelia approached.

"Let me know if you need anything."

"We're fine, Stu," Coop said.

"You _wouldn't_ say," Amelia said, resuming the argument.

Coop snatched up a paper from the corner of a black metal rack and tossed it toward the newsman on the counter.

"You can't equate theory with reality," Amelia said. "I have plenty of theories concerning the brain, but until I test them, I can't very well make an assertion."

"Now you're conflating unproven theory with observed representation," Coop said. "Blatantly incorrect representation."

"_Perceived_ representation."

"Trouble in paradise, folks?" Stu asked, looping a thumb under his suspender strap. He quirked a half-grin at Coop that made him look less melancholy, attractive almost. Coop returned his courtesy with an icy stare.

"Nothing that I'll not refute and consequently dismiss with a few more points, Stu. I'll take the next _Action Comics_, if you have it."

"Not in this weekend, Coop. If it's in by Monday, I'll hold one behind the counter for you."

"I appreciate it," Coop said, laying a coin for the paper on the stand.

"Miss," Stu dipped his head politely as Amelia departed with Coop.

"What's with the paper?" Amelia asked as they took off down the sidewalk.

"If the picture's bad, maybe I can entertain myself."

"You'll hurt your eyes. We can always leave if you don't like it."

"I have high hopes for it. Stevenson's well-meaning though mistaken theory of the human psyche made the novella a spirited read, but I can only assume Hollywood will present some bastardized version of what started as an interesting work of science fiction."

"Which one is the bad one again? It's been years since I read it," Amelia said.

"Mr. Hyde. The doctor is the good one."

"If the doctor made the potion, and he keeps taking it, how can he be good?"

"Let's not start bickering over moralities. We'll save that until after the show."

The pair marched into the movie theatre with less than forty cents between them, but each had some change left over after paying for admission, drinks, and buttery popcorn. Though occasionally called progressive in her professional career, she quelled the urge to ask for Coop's hand in the darkened theatre. Maybe one day he would take the initiative himself.

* * *

"Is it a jaguar?"

"I already said primate."

"But I _really _want it to be a jaguar."

"I don't think you quite grasp the concept of this game."

"Leopard?"

"No."

"Lynx?"

"No."

"Tabby cat?"

"DENNIS!"

"Fine, fine. Don't count those last couple'a guesses."

Amelia had been playing twenty questions with Dennis since he arrived. News coming through on the wires was slower than a snail in partially dried cement. Even when she bothered with the headset, the old Morse code telegraph in Big Bill's office beeped inconsistently. People shuffled in and out of the newsroom, but Sunday turned the bustling hive of reportage into a ghost town. Except for those lucky few on duty, who were instructed to record the glorious happenings of the weekend. Unless it was a particularly boring weekend current-event wise, which left those on wire duty to their own devices.

"It was a chimp, if you were wondering," Amelia continued, twisting demurely in her wooden-backed swivel chair.

"I honestly lost interest three games ago."

"I don't see you offering any suggestions for games. I thought it would at least pass the time."

She would've given a superfluous body organ, like a spleen or appendix, to make time go faster. She'd been there since five a.m. to relieve the night shift, and it was only now eleven in the morning. In that time she'd taken notes on a blizzard in the plains, the released reports on the new helium compounds used in the Macy's parade, and the numbers of new recruits steadily lining up at military registry stations. During odd weekend hours, KRVT didn't broadcast directly from their station, instead opting for a connection via the primary CBS affiliate out of Los Angeles to entertain their listeners. Amelia had had less than fun running prerecorded promos in the dead space left for the few Pasadena sponsors. Thankfully, Dennis had come in at nine to break up some of the monotony. Not so thankfully, the boy was dreadful at twenty questions.

"I'm gonna head out for a smoke. Too long staring at these walls drives me crazy," Dennis said.

"Take your jacket."

"Sure, _mom_."

"Watch it, or she'll be hearing from me."

"Ha! 'S not likely," he said, cupping his hand around a flickery match head. "On second thought, I'm staying in here. Wind's got it too chilly for me."

"And you're just lazy enough not to get your jacket?"

He blew smoothly, the thick grey cloud settling into the pale light shining through the windows. Amelia blinked; the smoke turned the station yellow and hazy.

"Not in my face, please," she said, flapping a hand at the air.

"Don't smoke outside, don't smoke in here," he said, white stick flapping between his lips. "No pleasin' you."

"I never said don't go outside. I said take your jumper when you do. Besides, those things are hard to quit."

"You think so?"

"They seem rather addictive to me. I'd love to slice your brain open and have a poke around."

"You think you're so smart."

"Says the boy who lost four games of twenty questions when I gave him thirty clues."

The ancient telegraph in the back started in with a heavy series of dots and dashes, nearly drowning out their teasing.

"Go on. See what the bleeps and dashes have for ya then," Dennis said.

Amelia rose and headed to Big Bill's office. He never kept the place locked, which seemed strange to Amelia. He had the personnel files, the checkbook, a Rolodex of sources and contact numbers, not to mention a list of informants stashed in a corner shoebox that looked full to bursting with family photos. Organized chaos, she supposed, but that wouldn't deter an avid rival from trashing the place in search of information. She'd done some less than noble things to get a story scoop; she'd never trashed an office, but there was a first time for everything. Bypassing a filing cabinet marked "station mail," she picked up the headpiece and held one ancient speaker to her ear.

The dots and dashes came fast, but, like short hand, she had acquired the transcriptive skills quickly. Morse code was so rarely used at the bigger stations with the prominence of radio and telephone, but there was still a thirty second delay from the east coast that Morse signals could counterbalance. Thirty seconds here and there could add up to three minutes, which was enough time for a full report, independent of east coast influence. As she listened, she took notes, the letters flowing from her pen to the page with an eerie disconnect. She understood, but it was disjointed. Beeps led to dashes. Letters to words. Words to phrases that hinted at catastrophe. She didn't know how long she had been sitting, propped on Big Bill's desk, one hand to her ear and the other raking furiously at the paper. She nearly lashed out when Dennis nudged her shoulder.

"What's the news?"

The beeps and dashes elicited an offensive twang in her ear. She looked Dennis up and down, the doughy, blonde boy with lip enough for two wise guys but a heart bigger than the now-bloody Pacific. He'd be affected. He was just a boy, someone's son. Like all those sons on those ships… She didn't know the procedure for something like this. There was no situational protocol. She was frozen, ink seeping from her pen tip into the paper before her.

"Gimme that," he took the paper unceremoniously from the desk, eyes skimming. "Shit…. Get to the wires!" he said, grabbing her bicep with a ferocity she'd not thought the young boy possessed.

Amelia blinked, twice, but that was all it took. She tromped over to the telephone station at Dennis's desk.

"I'm getting LA on one of our lines," she said. "I'm going to need the central office in Washington, too."

"They'll be loaded up with calls, Amelia. No way they'll get back to us."

"You think they'll interrupt the broadcast or wait for the half hour mark?"

"Forget the half hour mark! Someone needs to get on the air, now!" Dennis yelled.

Jumping on the air with a story like this was jarring. Her bones ached like they'd been jammed together in cold weather, and her head was a thunderstorm of pressures and implications and conjecture.

"That was the Morse report from Camp Kearney, right?" Dennis asked.

"San Diego communications officer is the only one who ever bothers to send us anything anymore," Amelia said. She shook her head in determination when the phone started ringing. "Might be the AP. Go to it. I'm getting on with Los Angeles."

Before she could stop herself, she'd gotten through the operator and was talking to some guy named Patrick.

"What do you mean, wait twenty minutes?! If the planes bypass the islands, how do you know the California coast won't be next? This sounds hysterical, I admit, but twenty minutes could be the difference between life and death!"

"…"

"So they'll wait until _Spirit of '41_ concludes?"

"…"

"There's no _time_. We can't sit here twiddling our thumbs while New York and Washington have the luxury of 2,700 miles of air space between them and potential air raids! Our listeners are sitting ducks on the west coast. What if the Guard needs to mobilize? Dennis, what's the status?" she yelled.

"John Daly's gonna run it out of New York on the half, top of _The World Today_ block."

"That's not soon enough…" she said to no one in particular, redirecting her attention to Patrick-on-the-phone. "It's not soon enough. I don't know how your station operates, but we've got a responsibility to the public." She slammed the receiver down.

Amelia stared at the clock, ticking in defiance above the exit door: eleven eleven. Nineteen minutes to mock her. Nineteen minutes until corroboration. She had no supporting information, and the LA affiliate was no help whatsoever. She could cut out of their broadcast, make the announcement once every three minutes, and then switch back to the national reportage. Hearing it from a recognized name like Daly would solidify things. But until then, she was on duty. She was in charge. So that booth was hers.

"Where are you going?" Dennis asked.

"Control booth. I'm going to cut out of the linked broadcast to make the announcement, then swap back over on the half for the national confirmation. They'll probably have something out of D.C. soon, but I believe the President will wait for a more formal address tomorrow, once details have been solidified. Tonight at the earliest."

"You're not waiting for LA?"

"LA is more concerned with saving it's own skin than saving the public. Screw LA."

"Amelia!"

"You need to go find your uncle. Call him. Or run to him. I don't care. We're going to need at least half the station full of staff once this breaks. Even if there's no coastal assault, we're going to need people for fact-checking. This could easily escalate to panic, but I want to report correct and timely information. Now go."

While Dennis fumbled with the phone, Amelia slid into the dimly lit control room. Compared to the golden sheen in the newsroom, the tiny space felt much too glum, much too close. She turned a knob, removed a wire from one input and placed it in another. She settled a bulky headset over her ears, and it wasn't until she pressed the button for the audio feed that she noticed a tear running over the angular curve of her cheek.

Three short beeps later, and the 'on air' sign lit up. For one moment, all she and the radio listeners of Pasadena could hear was her heavy breathing.

"KRVT interrupts your regularly scheduled programming for an important news bulletin," she said, mouth so close to the microphone she could taste the metal casing. She prayed that her voice remained steady. "Moments ago, Japanese forces attacked the U.S. Naval Base in Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, on the central island of Oahu. This report has been confirmed by California's 40th infantry division out of San Luis Obispo and the Associated Press. More information to follow on the half hour with our East Coast affiliate."

Amelia flicked switches and ghosted hands over buttons on autopilot, pausing only long enough to let a second tear join its sister, following the wet track down her face. Breathing deeply, she wiped clumsily at the moisture and walked back into the newsroom. Dennis was gone; she could only assume to find his uncle. But she was not alone. All of Pasadena would be with her shortly, as every phone in the golden room was ringing off the hook.

People would be here soon. When she was around other reporters, she'd be better. More put together. But right now, all she wanted was a bit of comfort. Thirty years old and she still needed that reassurance; that things, if not right now, then at one point, or in the future, would be okay. Scanning the empty newsroom, her eyes locked on Bill's office, focusing on scattered files, an ashtray full of grey, and the telegraph. Sliding to the station mail cabinet, she sifted through a few sloppily labeled files until she found the one titled _Science Hour with Dr. Fowler_. It was thin, and even smelled a little musty. It contained her contract, a few supplementary papers, and notes on sources from the previous science reporter. _It's probably not in here_… Flipping through more pages, her breath caught when she came across it. Pulling it from the file, she held it close but dared not read it.

She abandoned Bill's office and stowed the document in her pocketbook, running back to answer the phones. She manned the lines for five minutes, but went back to the broadcast booth to repeat, as calmly as she could, the news of the strike at 11:20.

She ran back to the main room only to find Dennis on the phones, a wary look on his face as he gestured toward the office she'd just rifled through. Big Bill was red in the face, pink tinges working their colorful trek all the way up his receding hairline. He puffed, indignant, on a cigar probably worth all of Amelia's undergraduate tuition.

"What did you do?" he asked, more calm than she'd ever seen him.

"We were running the wires, and the telegraph picked up. Communications from the 40th, they still send out Morse reports to all the major stations in the state."

"People were running in the streets on my way here," he said, rising.

"I was as calm as I could be. I mentioned _nothing _of a mainland strike."

"You didn't have to! They're not idiots! They can figure out proximity issues on their own!" he shouted, slapping a hand on his desk.

"If it _does_ come to some attack, or a state of emergency, those few extra minutes will help them be prepared. It was the right thing to do."

"What right do _you_ have to make a call like that?!"

"Just as much of one, if not more, as you!" she yelled back.

"EXCUSE ME?!"

"From a neurobiological standpoint, panic results when one feels upset, or unprepared for a threatening situation. Giving the public time to prepare, even a few extra minutes, will be calming long-term, if dopamine release—"

"I could give a _FUCK_ about dopamine release, Mr. Freud!"

"Freud was a psychologist, not a biolo—"

"You're going to want to shut your trap, unless you want to clean out your desk," he threatened.

She clenched her jaw and started a mental countdown. 10, 9, 8….

"Now, something like this is unprecedented, I'll give you that," he said, but with no trace of understanding in his voice.

7, 6, 5…

"And if Daly's on at the half hour like Dennis says, we'll have what we need to clarify everything."

4, 3, 2…

"But know this: If you take it upon yourself to break a national story without confirmation from the LA affiliate, Sacramento, Santa Barbra, or some kind of authorization from me…."

1.

"You'll be outta that door faster than you can chirp for forgiveness, alright, Birdie?"

_**Reviews appreciated :D**_

_**I understand the beginning and end of this one are in two different ballparks tone-wise, but I thought, so would have been an unassuming day before a national catastrophe. Normalcy one moment, hysteria the next. If you disagree, I'll take the critique! **_

_**Also, I might move this up to M... I'm wary of language and I know themes will start to get heavier. Just a warning to set your filters accordingly if you've not got an alert set up. **_


	10. The Storm

_**Usual disclaimers apply. Enjoy!**_

Vindicated. He often felt it, if only because he was right about so many things. But today, whatever positive justification he might have felt was suppressed by uncertainty, worry, and a twinge of fright.

Hours after the announcement, California coastal cities had erupted in panic. He had included such a scenario in his quarterly drills, but now that it was past the hypothetical, the only security he could muster was in his preparedness. After hearing the sirens, speculative radio reports, and screams of civilians on the Pasadena streets, his emergency kit was starting to look more and more like something far more useful for a theoretical attack than an impending air raid. Even if he had gone to Berkeley this weekend, he would have still been within range of a coastal breach. There was something comforting about being in the same city as his best buddy, whom he knew was tucked safely away, Penelope attached to his side like a limpet, in the basement laundry room of their apartment building. But he had never expected to feel as concerned, or panicked, this helpless, terrified, or ineffective as he did currently. Bombs from above had nothing on the ticking, terrible knot that twisted his gut every moment he thought about Amelia.

Coop blazed down the sidewalk in the distempered California night, bypassing trucks full of boys clad all in drab on their way to anti-aircraft posts. There had already been reports, probably false, of Japanese submarines in the Los Angeles harbor near the Terminal Island naval base. It didn't stop the authorities from putting the place under martial law.

Nor did the ruckus stop his attempts at contacting Amelia. He had heard her, clearly, as she made the announcement midday. He waited in agony as the Washington broadcast confirmed his worst fears. Erroneous details trickled through the static for the rest of the day, heightening the already uncontrolled hysteria of Los Angeles and the surrounding communities. He had assumed, naturally, that she would come and find him after her wire shift ended at the station. When the minute hand ticked past 6:34, he had scrambled for phones, at Howard's, at CalTech, at the bus depot, and tried to contact her. He was currently on his way to KRVT, having pounded so hard on her apartment door he'd nearly sent her neighbors crawling under their sofa. When the timid old woman peeked out the front door, he issued a somewhat hostile apology in exchange for information on Amelia's whereabouts. The old woman turned pale and slammed the door in his face, which turned Coop even sourer on apologies than he already was.

He stopped under a street lamp that flickered, unable to decide whether it wanted to illuminate the sidewalk or no. It would be put out, if the city knew what was good for it; he could almost hear the order for a blackout in his mind. He stared at his pocket watch, jostled by a group of women as they scurried across the street. It had taken him far too long to do all the footwork and to stow Leo and Penelope safely away. He'd even had the decency to inform Howard of his back-up emergency kit, complete with gas lantern and two bottled Cokes. Seven-thirty mocked the beginning of the dark, showing just how much time he had wasted trekking all over God's green earth trying to contact her.

He threw open the door and stalked through the lobby of the station; not that there was anyone to stop him. The front desk was abandoned.

The back room, however, was a different story. All the blinds were down but the newsroom had never seemed more alive; it smelled like stale cigarettes and day old coffee and a barely contained panic. People squeezed by each other, knocked hips into desks and threw pencils like grenades from one corner to another. Phones rattled in their holders and a drone of conversation tinged with nervous excitement swept through the area like a wave of energy. A man in the early balding stages with a pink face and squinched cheeks bellowed from a secluded office in the back right, waddling back and forth from the door with every ring of the phone.

"Whatda ya' want?" a blonde youth asked him, juggling four different phone lines. "Hold for a second, will ya?!" he shouted into the receiver.

Coop didn't have time for pleasantries with news-station hooligans.

"I'm looking for Dr. Fowler," he said.

"What?" the youth said, attention clearly diverted.

"Dr. Fowler. Amelia Fowler. Is she here? She was on wire duty earlier to day when the news broke. She was supposed to be home at four. I've tried calling, but the lines have been busy—"

"Well yeah they've been busy!" the boy said, picking up another line. "Is this Chicago? I'm putting you through to the station manager. Yeah… yeah, fine."

Coop stared at the boy as he barked commands and took some notes. He didn't seem to be paying Coop much attention, which gave Coop enough time to survey the newsroom. Regretfully, he couldn't spy Amelia. It panicked him just enough to do something drastic. He spasmodically ripped the chord from the phone the youth was speaking into, which pretty much guaranteed him some attention.

"What the hell, man?!"

"Amelia Fowler. What time did she leave?"

"She's in the newsroom."

"No, she's not," Coop insisted.

"Then she's in the back booth, running copy through. Just give her a minute, geez."

And blessedly, she stepped through a back door as if on cue. Her head was down, attention honed in on a piece of paper. She leaned over a middle-aged woman's shoulder, eyes skimming some sort of report. She exchanged a few words with the lady, who motioned to the phone. They looked up at the boy next to Coop and nodded, which caused the boy to press a button on the control panel. Amelia picked up the receiver and started talking, writing and headshaking all the while.

She had looked up in his direction, Coop thought. She had looked right _through_ him. Like she had blinders on. After all that time he spent worrying over her… All of his fretting… It was like he wasn't even there…

"What are all of you doing?" Coop asked.

The boy still had a phone glued to his ear, lines crisscrossing and control panel blinking.

"What do you think? We just got bombed!... Hello? Yes, KRVT out of Pasadena… We're doing our _jobs_, slick… No, I need the Mayor's office in Los Angeles!... They're bussing out the _new_ recruits to man the anti-aircraft? Holy shit… No! I need that on the record, I'm transferring you to the station manager."

Ignoring the blonde boy with the potty-mouth, Coop weaved his way through the office traffic. No one gave him a second-glance, which was somewhat disconcerting. Any madman off the street could infiltrate this chaos and take off with money or goods, the distracted journalists unawares.

"Amelia."

"And I'm going to need to put you through to our host in the booth, if you're willing to go on air with that," she said to the phone.

"Amelia."

"I don't care if it's not released. We need to know if some kid out of high school with zero training is manning the machine guns."

"_Amelia_."

"Can't you see I'm— oh," she said, determined face dissolving. "Patty, I need Captain Barrows to make this statement on air," she directed, mouthpiece pressed into her shoulder. She handed the phone off to the woman Coop could only assume was Patty, and then squeezed his bicep to indicate she wanted him to follow her.

"Birdie…" the blonde youth called. "Amelia, where ya' goin'?"

"Five minutes," she said.

"I think not," Coop mumbled.

When they had reached the deserted lobby, he was having a hard time hiding his anger. She was doing her job, but she had been doing that job since five that morning. In the twelve plus hours she had been up here, she could have at least _tried_ to contact him. He felt he deserved as much.

"I know you've been working. And I know something like this is unprecedented," he began, stern and implacable. He hoped she realized the seriousness of this offense. "But no matter your occupation, that does _NOT_ exempt you from the basic courtesy of contact. I've not known where you were for the majority of the day. I could only assume here, but you were also supposed to meet up with me at 4:30. You have Howard's number, as well as access to messenger boys whose specific job it is to relay information from one party to another. I understand that in times of severe distress, scheduling and planned activities may be suspended, but that doesn't absolve you of the basic task of letting me know your wellbeing is not compromised. I thought we had an understanding, and after all the grief I've been through this afternoon…"

He discontinued his lecture as her expression faltered. What had started out as a worried reprimand somehow morphed into a severe scolding. And, genius though he was, he was only now beginning to realize the stress the day had put on _her _in particular. Unlike him, she had not prepared for something like this. A state of emergency in her home town was not unlike to happen, but her optimistic sense coupled with a down playing of vulnerabilities left her unprepared for the suddenness of it all. Coop had no delusions of his own vulnerabilities; which resulted in an over-preparedness bordering on the compulsive.

"I'm sorry I didn't try to call Howard…" she said.

Why were her eyes pink?

"It's just when the numbers started coming in, Coop, it was in the thousands…"

Red, they were definitely red. Which was unsettling. They were almost always this warm shade of green, like moss glazed in honey. He didn't like it.

"I couldn't leave. I _had_ to follow up. I was the first to start the timeline, knew who we'd already followed up with."

Coop didn't know why. He could feel his eyebrows bunch together, the tips of his lips turn downward. Was it a glare? A scowl? He didn't know how to feel anymore than his face could convey it.

"They're saying we'll have a blackout over all coastal metropolitan areas. They're threatening to shut down the stations, so the only frequencies they hear would be enemy communications… To be more certain…"

"Certainty is an absolute. One cannot be 'more certain'."

"For this, you can. One-hundred and twenty percent certain, as absurd as it sounds."

"Birdie!"

The pink-faced man stuck his head out from behind the newsroom door. Coop wagered, if he had been a little shorter and his balding a little more progressed, he would have resembled a heavily disgruntled pig.

"Jim's gonna cover you. Go home, you've been up here since five this morning and you look like hell. We probably won't be on the air much longer anyway, the way the reports are shaping up." He turned back to the jittering room of information. "Good job, I guess," he said, not bothering to turn around. It was an afterthought. Coop wasn't one for reading sincerity, but whatever pig-man had just said was certainly not genuine.

On second-glance at Amelia, he did notice her looking less-than-put-together. Her hair, normally so sleek and straight, was pulled back behind her in a messy ponytail, little ridges bumping up at odd intervals over the crown of her head. Peeking out from underneath the fall of hair were two pencils, their customary place behind her ear forgone due to the stems of her glasses frames. She'd be in for a first-class injury if she put her head down. Though why would she leave her hair up if she were to lie down? Deciding he had contemplated her hair for much too long, he tried to get her to leave.

"You can come with me back to my apartment. We'll stay with Leo and Penelope until we know more."

"We'll know more if we stay here," she argued.

"Not according to that gentleman in there," Coop said.

"He doesn't know what he's talking about," Amelia said angrily.

"You just said yourself the FCC or the military or whoever is going to shut down the commercial radio frequencies. You're not needed here."

"But we can still call people."

"That rude blonde boy seemed to be handling the phones with aplomb."

"He's just a teenager."

"As a teenager, I had a doctorate. Surely he can connect one line to another."

"We can't all be as brilliant as you, Coop."

Her tone suggested that was not a compliment. "It is a cross many must bear. But we're leaving. If not my apartment, then somewhere that's not here. Somewhere that you can rest."

"I won't be able to. No one will be able to now," she said quietly.

"It doesn't mean we can't try. You of all people should know what stress and sleep deprivation do to the brain's functioning capabilities."

She nodded.

"Come on," he said. "Let's get out of here."

* * *

"Why are we down here?" Amelia asked, feet hitting cement in the basement of Sheldon's apartment. There were no lights, and the tiny sliver of a window near street level provided little in the department of illumination. She could make out three whitish, bulking square shapes in the corner standing on thin legs. It had to be the laundry area.

"We'll be better off down here if an air raid happens. It's practically a bunker. Isn't that right Leo?"

Silence.

"Leo? Penelope?"

"There's no one down here, Coop."

"They were down here when I left."

"You left hours ago."

"And whose fault is that? If you didn't make yourself so difficult to locate…"

His fingertips lightly brushed her back, directing her with the tiniest bit of pressure to the far side of the room.

"Crawl under," he said.

"What?"

"The table, go ahead."

Too tired to argue, Amelia ducked underneath the long table.

"I'm going to find Leo and Penelope. I'll be right back."

She didn't see so much as hear him retreat up the stairs, flopping her head back against the wall in exhaustion. It wasn't late, but the stress of fact checking, broadcasting and writing, all the while knowing the station was in range of an attack, had left Amelia stunned and drained. Readjusting her position, she found two small pillows tucked away in a corner behind a table leg, along with something rough and woven. She used her fingers and made out the shape of a strap on a bag, filled with goodies Amelia took to be Coop's survival kit. He'd mentioned it on more than one occasion, but, as fatigue took its toll on her mind and body, she couldn't find it in her to rummage through something she might have been more curious about during daylight hours. Shoving the pillow under her backside, she leaned back against the wall. She was asleep within seconds.

_WWWWWWWAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH-EEEERRRRR-WWWWWWWWAAAAAA HHHHH-EEEERRRRR-WWWWWWWWAAAAAAAHHHHH-_

Sirens. Flashes and heat. She couldn't move. Closed in. What was that noise? Running water… no, propellers from above. Planes in the sky— casualties in the thousands— someone was attacking. Not from the sky, but on her, now, pinning her down. She was going to die, on the hard, cool floor. She jerked, spasmed, even tried to deliver a kick. She twisted and felt something _rip_, fabric or a muscle, she couldn't tell. She tried to scream, but what she heard couldn't have been more than a whimper. She heard something else, too. It wasn't a siren, or a propeller. It was… her name?

"Amelia."

She'd heard it earlier, someone was calling her…

"Amelia, wake up."

Wake— she was awake. She was awake, but it was dark. And her left shoulder throbbed uncomfortably.

"Amelia."

"Awake… I'm… I'm awake," she said. At least she thought she was. Her hands were shaking, and her hair swooped in front of her eyes. She still felt too dense, claustrophobic… Someone had his hands…

"Coop," she said uncertainly. "You can let go, I'm alright."

"Are you sure?"

"No."

His hands were the polar opposites of the floor, warm, fleshy and soft. He held her centimeters from his face. Amelia thought he did; it was difficult to see in a room black as coal.

"Relax," he commanded. "Your muscles are so tight you'll strain something."

"It's okay, it happens all the time."

"You convulse in your sleep regularly?" his hands unclenched on the sides of her arms, but he didn't remove them.

"Occasionally, not regularly. My—my shoulder hurts."

"Probably because you catapulted yourself into the brick wall when the fit started. You'll have a fair bit of discoloration from the ruptured capillaries."

"I'll survive," she whispered. Amelia realized, all of sudden, her shaking hands were no longer shaking because they were tangled up in the fabric over Coop's torso. She could still see so little, but she could feel the muscle indention under his shirt as he shifted, her palm finding his abdomen.

"You can… you can stop holding me, if you want." She would have given anything to see his face.

"Are you sure?"

"…. No."

He held her, moments more, then slowly extracted himself from the embrace.

"What time is it?" she asked.

"I don't know. After midnight, I believe."

"Penelope and Leo?"

"Penelope said if she was going to die from a bomb in her sleep, she'd rather be asleep in her bed than on the floor. If an Axis assassin came for her in her sleep, I wouldn't place my money on the assassin."

"Can't say I wholly disagree with her, you know, on the bed sentiment." Amelia pulled her arms out in front of her body and stretched, muscles aching from sleeping upright.

"But we're safe down here."

"For now. We'll have to face the day soon enough," she replied. "The president's supposed to make a speech tomorrow."

"I'm surprised he didn't speak tonight," Coop said. Amelia felt him fumble against his chest, then heard a chinking sound as he dragged a heavy metal something across the basement floor. He struck a match, the little flame casting a heavy shadow over his face. Rembrandt would have been captivated. The light grew as Coop lit the gas lantern at his feet.

"I'm sorry if I startled you," Amelia said. "Earlier, I mean."

"You have bad dreams?"

"Nightmares, periodically. As you saw, I have very, uhm, fitful nights. But it's mainly when I've been under inordinate amounts of stress."

"What do you dream?"

"Everything. Just, bad stuff. Sometimes it's so simple. I can't breathe, or I'm locked in a box, or I'm falling and never hit the ground. Other times, it's more elaborate. Like a narrative going on in my subconscious."

"And tonight?"

"Bombs."

With the aid of the lantern, Amelia noticed Coop's eyes for the first time that night. They were dry, red, and cracked like hers had been earlier.

"Have you slept at all?"

"You succumb to night terrors. My terrors come when I'm awake. They don't let me sleep."

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault. We live in an unstable time, all dependent upon the fickle, perverse attitudes of a few people. If I had it my way, I'd be upstairs with a warm cup of milk and back to dreaming about inverse tangents."

"We can go get you some, if you'd like?"

"No! We can't leave now. What if something happens?"

"If anything were to happen, it would have happened already."

"I bet that's what they said in Hawaii…"

Amelia stared at the lantern until her eyes hurt.

"We'll stay then."

"Tell me more about your dreams," Coop said, lacing his fingers over his lap. He seemed to be settling in for a long talk.

"I already did. There's nothing more to tell."

"Have you done anything to stop them?"

"I can't. I've had them as long as I can remember."

"And you wake up, how? Twisted all up in your sheets, hair wild, falling off of your mattress?"

Amelia inhaled sharply. Under normal circumstances, Coop would have given better thought to his ramblings about what she did in her own bed; but Coop was not normal. Neither were the circumstances.

"They're just… overwhelming. I can't wake up, unless there's some kind of, like… jolt. Me falling, someone shakes me. I usually tire myself out. They feel, the dreams… all-consuming."

"Well there's a problem with an easy solution," Coop said briskly. "Make them smaller."

"Excuse me?"

"You dream too big. Literally. Make them smaller. Dream a little dream."

Amelia did her best not to snort. "Of you?"

"Why would you dream of me?"

"No, Coop," she said, smile returning after hours of scowls and frowns. "_Stars shining bright above you_," she sing-songed.

"That's probably the antiaircraft planes."

"It's a song, silly."

"What?" he asked.

"_Dream a Little Dream of Me_."

"I've never heard it before."

"You told me you listened to the radio," Amelia said.

"I listen to _talk _radio. And even then, only when the station has something interesting to report."

"Well, I work on _talk _radio, but even I keep my ears open. Besides, how do you propose I make them smaller?"

"How should I know? I'm a physicist, not— God forbid— a psychologist. I'm saying it's possible to do it. I don't know how."

"Did you just admit to not knowing something?"

"There are plenty of things I don't know," Coop said, hooded lids sweeping from the lantern light to the dull shadow waving over her ankles. She had to be mistaken, the lamplight playing tricks on her, but she could have sworn his line of sight slid up her legs. "It doesn't mean I _won't_ know them in the future."

"Always hoping to learn," she said quietly.

"I love to learn."

"Me, too."

They talked for the rest of the night, about bombs, badly adapted versions of literary-classics-turned-movie-blockbusters, the difference between depiction and actuality. When the building superintendent found them in the morning, Coop's head rested on top of Amelia's, their pinkies touching in the space between their bodies.

_**"Dream a Little Dream of Me," is an actual song. That I sort of love. The most famous version is probably by Mama Cass, but I'm pretty sure this was written in the 30s, cause I've heard a recording by Bing Crosy, big crooner during the second war effort. Also, posting this just before I head out the door. Apologies for the grammar errors.**_

_**I know it's been a little slow to start, but, if you know even the slightest bit of history, a declaration of war is coming. So, yeah, there's that. Would love to hear from you, speculation, critiques on keeping the characters IC (or as much as one can for a time-jump AU) or general comments. Reviews are the equivalent of a make-your-own-sundae-bar. 100% end in happiness.  
**_


	11. A Decent Proposal

_**Usual disclaimers apply. **_

**May, 1942**

Coop was on edge; he had been since he'd swung by Amelia's apartment earlier that night, during the picture show, after their shake at Sammy's, and even now, walking her back up the stairs, he seemed so out of place he might as well have been on Neptune. Amelia fiddle with the clasp on her pocketbook, thrusting a clump of fingers into the bag to feel for her keys.

"And you're sure you're quite alright?" she asked, trying to sound equal parts light-hearted and concerned. She had found Coop liked attention, but not being questioned repeatedly.

"I'm fine, I just— think we should discuss something, if you're willing."

"I'm always willing," she said, attention focused on her front door lock. Her head jerked up suddenly. "To speak with you, I mean. Please, come in."

It was not the first time he had been in her small apartment. He had marveled at her ability to maintain a space without a roommate in the current market, especially considering the influx of people pouring into the Los Angeles metropolitan area searching for jobs. Their state, much like Amelia and Coop's professional lives, was booming.

He had never said much about the space itself, though. Easy blue tones and understated décor didn't quite personalize the one-bedroom apartment. She had quilts draped over the backs of her sofa and sitting chair because, as she had confessed, she liked to wrap herself up like a cocoon at night. Every time she heard something bad coming in over the wires, her fits recurred. And she was hearing _a lot _of things over the radio waves these days.

Amelia found solace on the worst nights from the pièce de résistance in her apartment: her bookcase. Sprouting from the corner like something wonderfully organic, the dark cherry wood held books on every subject she'd ever been interested in. She'd had it custom made, her first major expense upon moving into her own place. From floor to ceiling the shelving stretched, fiction sectioned off from nonfiction, Dewey Decimal system providing structure. Coop had suggested reorganizing under the Library of Congress classification, you know, to be more patriotic during these times. Amelia had agreed, initially, but had given up the ghost once she realized Congressional classification would relocate some of her more frequently used texts to the topmost shelf. It was more practical her way, she justified internally. Perhaps not patriotic. She'd help with a window-sill victory garden, Coop could reorganize his books.

Amelia gestured toward the sitting area and gently laid her things on a small table near the front door. Maneuvering to the kitchenette, she sneaked a peek at Coop. He was perched stiffly on the couch, one hand rubbing the back of his neck, as if he had a crick in it.

"I'm making a cup of tea. Night cap?" she asked.

"Please."

"I'm afraid I can't offer you any sugar, or honey, for that matter," Amelia said. "I got my ration book from the Office of Price Administration two weeks ago."

"It's fine," Coop said, returning to silence.

Amelia placed the kettle on the hob and stuck a match under the grate to ignite the gas into flame. She flicked it back and forth in her hand, frustrated with Coop's attitude.

"Coop, I know something's going on with you," she said, taking her place opposite him. She placed her left arm on the top of the sofa and squared her shoulders in his direction. "You don't have to worry, it's just me. If I didn't know you better, I'd say you were undergoing some sort of hormonal imbalance."

She saw him grin at his knees and emit a breath that could have been a chuckle.

"Come on," Amelia continued. "It can't be all that bad. It's not like they're calling you up."

_No._

What if that was it? What if he was trying to tell her he'd been drafted? That, despite his best efforts at the University, his research with Oppenheimer, his brilliant, beautiful mind, he was _still_ going to have to go over there. To Europe. Or Africa. Or the Pacific. They'd just won at Midway, but with such heavy casualties. Bombers, like the kinds she dreamed about, diving, burning, dying around Coop. Amelia felt like she'd been backhanded across the face, fear and pain and uncertainty so powerful she nearly wretched.

"I haven't been drafted," Coop said soothingly.

"Thank God," Amelia said, momentarily relieved. "But, you seem so solemn. Just what's… what's wrong?"

Coop took a deep breath and finally faced her, tucking his right leg under his body on her couch. His right arm drifted up to the back of the sofa, fingers dancing just within reach of hers.

"This, I've been told, is actually a happy occurrence for most people," Coop started.

"We're not most people."

"Thankfully…" he said, rolling his neck again. "How long have we known each other?"

"Oh," Amelia said, caught off guard. "I can't recall, precisely. We met in September."

"Yes. Eight months, two weeks and six days ago, you ran into me on the sidewalk outside of Sammy's."

"_You_ ran into _me_," she countered.

"I didn't bring this up to rehash that particular argument," he said. "I wanted, that is… I have this proposal…"

The kettle started shrieking.

"Proposal?" she asked warily, withdrawing her hand.

"Not in _that_ sense," he yelled over the din.

She rose and retrieved the boiling kettle from the stove top, pouring two stout, gritty cups.

"It's going to be quite strong," she said, passing a teacup and saucer to him. "I've forgone strainers to get at the concentrated caffeine from the tea."

"Don't worry about the tea," he said.

"You're usually very particular about your tea," she said suspiciously. "Almost English."

"I know. But not right now. Amelia… you, humph," he exhaled, frustrated. "You recall my distaste after I found out about your encounter with Stu?"

"Distaste is putting it mildly. To quote Penelope, you were, 'bat-crap crazy'. A colorful phrase, I'll admit."

"Yes well, I've done some thinking, and I wanted to find out your opinion on the matter."

"Coop," Amelia sighed, placing her teacup on the coffee table. She should really start referring to it as a tea table. "We've been through this. Two short dates. I hardly consider them dates at all. It wasn't out of pity, but he's a congenial acquaintance. It was the least I could do before he… before he shipped out."

The curly headed man with the sad face had thanked her for the date, and she him, for the service he would be providing. She'd written him once, out of courtesy, and found out that he was illustrating artillery weapons manuals stateside for the time being. Coop had not taken the dates well, since he had introduced the pair at the newsstand. At the time, the newsman could have been going anywhere. Stu had approached her with the same nervous energy Coop was currently exhibiting, claiming that if he didn't ask her for a coffee or a malt shake before he left for the front, he'd regret it every day he was over there. She couldn't very well turn him down after that, even with Coop's disapproval. Besides, there was nothing tying her to the man currently sitting on her couch other than a strong, one-sided affection. Coop had seemed more disgruntled over Stu's bumbling replacement, some incompetent teenager named Dale, than he had over Amelia and Stu's brief interactions. Amelia's shoulders slumped. _One-sided_, she thought. _How sad._

"In light of those and other recent events," he said, "I was wanting to know your thoughts on shifting the status of our current involvement to something rather more substantial."

Amelia's eyes popped wide.

"My thoughts?"

"I would never want to place you in a position where you would be uncomfortable," he said, the leather sheen on his shoe suddenly fascinating. "Unless of course, you _were _inclined to alter the present state to something a bit more—"

"Definite?" she asked hopefully.

"Quite."

_Cool_. _Cool. Play it cool._

"I would love— I mean," she began. "I think that, under existing social norms, it is the male's responsibility to change any established relational interactions."

"But that's just it! Nothing would change, only in name," he asserted, almost argumentative. "Regimentally, we would work up a schedule. You already understand my distaste for physical exchanges under most situations, so nothing would alter in that regard. The only thing that we might modify would be… the… ehm, exclusivity, of our interactions with each other and— well, with other people of opposing genders."

"I'm going to make you ask," she said, smiling smugly.

He groaned. "I know…" Another uncomfortable shoulder roll. "Amelia."

"Hmm?" she said.

"Would you be opposed to—"

"Nah-ah," she chastised.

"That is… will you go steady with me?"

"Yes."

"Glad that's over," he said, leaning back on the couch. It was the most relaxed he had been all night.

"Should we not, like, mark the occasion in some way?" Amelia asked, scooching the slightest bit closer on the couch.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know. I suppose, what with all the sad events happening, almost constantly, we should… have a little happiness." She walked her fingers across the couch, stopping just short of his knee.

Coop screwed up his eyebrows in confusion, missing her rogue hand completely.

"But you're my girl. I'm already happy," he said innocently.

_My girl. He's happy. I'm his girl and I make him happy._

"And now that all that warm-n'-fuzzy nonsense is out of the way, I have something a bit more pressing to discuss," he continued.

_What could be more pressing than solidifying a relationship?!_

"What is it?" Amelia asked.

"I am not being called up, but I am relocating."

"Temporarily?"

"Indefinitely."

_WHAT._

"But, you just asked me… and I said I'd do it, Coop," she said, elation subsiding. "Why did you ask if you knew you were leaving?"

"I had to ask _because_ I was leaving," he said. "Just hear me out. It won't be too far for too long. Oppie's convening a conference for the summer to discuss Project Y. I can't tell you much else, but I _can_ say it's in Berkeley. So I'll be there during the week but will return on weekends, much like my schedule now. It's merely the inverse."

"What about CalTech?"

"I've been given sabbatical leave. President Millikan signed off on it himself. His hand is pretty much forced when the Commander and Chief sends him a directive."

"I'm not as out of the loop as you think, Coop," Amelia said, intense. "For someone who's working on schematics and designs for a fission bomb, you seem awfully cavalier."

"Amelia!" he said, inching closer to her.

His knee bumped her hand, but he seemed to distracted to notice. Amelia, on the other hand, appreciated the brief contact as she withdrew her hand from the curvy joint.

It was a good thing they were in her apartment. Had they been in public, their proximity would have caused inappropriate stares and suggestions of room-getting. Thankfully, they had one.

"Not so loud!" he said.

"Do you really think Mr. and Mrs. Fredrickson are going to relay secrets to the Germans? That they're actually spies for Japan?"

"I don't want to take any chances. Not with you," he said, neck bobbing, twisting, and then focusing like a periscope.

_It's paranoia. But it's endearing paranoia_.

"I can take care of myself," she said.

"I'm not worried about you—"

"It's just everyone else you don't trust," she finished. "You're starting to sound like my father."

"I'm your boyfriend, not your father."

"I'll never get tired of hearing that," she smiled, and propped her head on her left hand.

"Lord knows I will," Coop said. "But back to Berkeley, Oppie thinks it will take at least a month. I'm wagering closer to three. He's bringing in _everyone_: Fermi, Teller, Compton, Lawrence, Seaborg… I could keep going. And back to your previous comment, I am anything but cavalier. He's bringing in everyone because he needs everyone for advisement. Conservatives and radicals. Moralists and those who could give a flip about casualty numbers. This is what's going to change it all, Amelia. I know it."

"And you already know so much," she said.

"Yet another thing that makes me too brilliant for the general populace."

There was no humor in his tone. His sincere reverence for his own brilliance was terrifyingly arrogant and frustratingly attractive.

"When do you leave?" she asked.

"The conference is slated for mid-July."

"So, we've got just under two months," she said.

"Two months for what?"

"Well, until you leave and we have to move some things around. That is… you did still want to do this long distance? You didn't just ask me to be your girlfriend for the month, right?"

"I already said I'd be coming back. And it won't take that much alteration. We'll just have to make a little more time for interacting on the weekends, which works more in my favor than yours. And _I'm _the one moving."

"Wait a second, Coop. I'm not just going to drop everything because you've come back to Pasadena. I'm not some clingy, starry-eyed chick. What if I have a story I'm chasing?"

"Then chase away! We'll just have to plan accordingly."

"Journalism is very spur of the moment. I could be working a story for forty-eight hours straight," she huffed.

"Let's think about this logically, then." He put his chin on his fist, an eerie resemblance to the stone Thinker settled on her couch cushions.

"Classes at UCLA are out during the summer months. Why don't you just ask to be transferred to the weekday shifts at the station?" Coop said.

"Bill already hates me. You think he'll grant _me_ a promotion?"

"He might not grant 'Birdie' a promotion. What an inane moniker. You should try to dissuade them from its usage."

"I have," Amelia said, chewing the inside of her cheek.

"But he might grant the journalist who broke the Pearl Harbor story an hour ahead of national radio a promotion."

"Oh!" Amelia said. "I think I see what you're getting at."

"It's the most elementary of physics. He's a stubborn man. It will be difficult to get him to change his mind. But use your leverage; men are dropping like flies from the workforce. You're one of the most qualified candidates in that newsroom, _and_ you've got the break with Hawaii to show it. Fulcrum and lever, resistance and effort. Use them."

"I'll try. I don't know if I can, but I'll certainly try."

"If that doesn't work, you can always tempt him with the knowledge that it's temporary. You're going back to teaching in the fall, I assume?"

"That was the plan."

"Then it's settled. No muss, no fuss. And then, you could even come visit me in Berkeley! You'd really like the biology department there, Amelia. Fairly… ech… _squishy_, but you seem to be interested in that sort of thing."

"So let me get this straight," Amelia said, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. "You are my boyfriend. I am your girlfriend. We're going to visit each other, weekly at least, during your relocation. I'm altering my occupation situation and you're doing the same, respectively, in addition to… what, correspondence and an occasional phone call?"

"That sounds accurate," Coop said. "Although, not specific enough for my taste. With fuel rations, transport might become more difficult during the upcoming months. I don't want to go into debt-inducing expense. I could make a projection chart..." he drifted off. "I'll draw something up, a schedule... or, contract of sorts, so everyone is on the same page."

"It's just us two, Coop."

"Regardless, best be synchronized when traveling or communicating. People may very well start intercepting your letters in this worldly hullabaloo we're experiencing."

"I'm not a spy, Coop!" Amelia said.

"That's what Chihiro said when she was dating Leo. Turns out he was wrong."

"You really want to risk it then?" Amelia continued, playing along. "I might be a spy, and you're working on a top-secret government project."

"You're not a spy," he said, refuting his previous statement. And then, more seriously, "I trust you."

"Thank you."

He straightened his leg to reach in his pocket, flipping open the tiny silver door of his watch. "If you don't have any further business, I really should be getting home. I'll have to run for a cable car if I'm not wary of time limits."

"No, nothing on my end," she said, rising as he retrieved his suit jacket. "Thank you, Coop, for a lovely evening."

"You're welcome. We're eating at Sammy's on Tuesday, like usual. I'll see you there?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, walking him toward the door. "Coop, I have a small request before we… that is, before you put everything down in writing, officially."

She noted his narrowing eyes, big and silver-blue.

"Could I… that is, could we… might I hug you?"

"Oh, I was really hoping to avoid all this—"

"Just tonight!" she said. "You know me. I wouldn't normally want to hug you in the midday hustle and bustle either, when one is all sweaty, out in public, the like. But, per your request, we're now going steady, and I don't think it's an unreasonable request for certain occasions."

"Certain occasions?" he asked.

"Like the commencement of a definitive relationship."

"So you mean now?"

"Yes."

Coop puckered his lips and exhaled heavily. "I suppose," he said.

"You don't have to sound so happy about it," she said, as she closed the distance between their bodies.

"I was just—"

"Shh! Less talking, more hugging," she said, wrapping her arms around his waist, under his jacket.

"Is that the kind of comment I can expect because you're my girl now?"

Amelia nodded into his chest, the cotton of his shirt probably stained from the little makeup she donned. She felt his hands settle on the small of her back and squeeze tentatively. She could feel his chin hovering just over her head, the muscles in his back tensing under her splayed fingers. She rocked, unintentionally, back and forth, nuzzling so hard into Coop's torso it was like she was trying to burrow her way into his chest cavity.

"How long do these relationship-celebrating hugs tend to last?" he asked.

She felt the rumbles from his vocal chords slip down her body, bass notes settling somewhere between her heart and her abdomen. Something buried under layers of anatomy stirred and burned, excited.

"About this long," she said, taking a deep breath of _him_.

She released her hold, reluctantly, and leaned against the doorjamb as she bid him farewell. She did not mean to be coy; she just couldn't stand on her own after being held by him.

"Goodnight Amelia. I do hope, with all sincerity, that your dreams are pleasant."

She watched him walk down the hall, then shut and locked her door. She slid down to her floor, ridiculous grin refusing to wane. "Goodnight, my guy," she said, to no one.

Amelia woke the next morning still on her mattress, hair relatively unmussed, no sheets wrapped around her ankles like seaweed dragging her to the depths. She had slept peacefully, no nightmares. The only muscles that hurt were a few in her cheeks. She wouldn't be able to know definitively without some form of observational analysis, but she probably had spent the night smiling in her sleep.

**_Reviews appreciated. :)_**


	12. Harsh Realities on Girl's Day

_**Usual disclaimers of non-ownership apply. Note the rating change, at this point for language. **_

"So what did your boss say?" Penelope asked, slinging her purse strap across her shoulder. She uncapped an alarming shade of red and smeared it on her lips, stopping in front of a window to stick her index finger in her mouth and swipe some crimson goop off of one of her canines.

Bernadette and Amelia watched with raised brows, as did the shop patrons behind the window.

"He said I could take Rick's spot," Amelia said. "He was the news producer for the noon hour broadcast they run during the week with our news anchor, Jim, but he volunteered when his brother said he was joining up. You'd be amazed at how many communications officers they need, on runways, subs, tanks, even in the field. I've worked with Jim a few times; he's amiable enough."

"That went much better than anticipated," Bernadette said.

"Oh, I had to fight for it. I don't know why Bill dislikes me so. I've never done anything to personally offend him."

"Some old geezers are just stuck-up blowhards," Penelope offered.

"And I needed to face him. For Coop, initially, but for me, too."

"Good for you, Amelia," Bernadette said.

The trio passed the storefronts of a few shops along North Beverley Drive as they made their way toward MGM's headquarters. Penelope was up for a bit part in a war-time picture starring Pat O'Brien, in all likelihood playing some sort of soda jerk or cocktail waitress. Much to Amelia's good humor, the irony was not lost on her best girlfriend.

"I'm going to be _the_ most qualified for this part," Penelope asserted, propping herself, arms crossed, up against the concrete exterior of the MGM tower. It dwarfed all other buildings in the surrounding neighborhood, Hollywood's personal 'screw you' to the everyman of California. The MGM mascot, Leo the Lion, loomed over the girls with his blank stone stare and chiseled mane, Latin words etched into an arch around his head.

"_Ars Gratia Artis_," Amelia said.

"What's that?" Penelope asked.

"It's Latin. It means, 'art for art's sake'," Bernadette said.

"More like, 'art for outstanding profit'. The film industry is probably the most profitable domestic enterprise not directly related to the war that we have going for us right now," Amelia said.

"People don't want to think about the bad stuff," Penelope tried, crossed arms tightening. "What's wrong with forgetting your problems for a little while?"

"I'm not criticizing escapism," Amelia said. "I just don't think profiting from public hysteria is a noble course of action."

"A lot of contracted actors have left the studios. They're volunteering with the forces out of the goodness of their hearts," Penelope said.

"And I commend them. I just think some of these producers or screenwriters or directors, what have you, they aren't showing what it's like over there. The fifteen-minute propaganda short films opening _every_ picture, you can't agree that they portray an accurate depiction of what it's like on the front."

"Depiction and reality are frequently misconstrued," Bernadette offered.

"I guess they're not like reality," Penelope said, looking up at the stone lion. "But it's not like you know the reality, either, though."

Amelia was taken aback, and it obviously showed.

"I didn't mean that in a bad way," Penelope continued. "It's just that, we'll never really have to know, will we? I mean, thank God our guys are already set at the university over here. I don't know what I'd do if Leo was… But, those shorts about bonds and gardens, rations and even the K-9 units, they're there to—" Penelope trailed off, her beautiful, symmetric face marred with concentration. "I don't know… help _them_, not us. Sure, the short films might be manipulative. But they manipulate _us _into giving, right? Money, or goods… volunteering? Who cares if they're wrong. They've worked! You even said so on your radio show, Amelia. Something about, a surplus of bonds, but they're still selling. And the poll about the attitudes; people still want to do good, so eighty-some-odd percent wanted to make sacrifices. Gave money. Took the gasoline ration. Maybe it's not exactly noble, those pictures, but they work."

"Yeah!" Bernadette said, patting the taller blonde on the arm.

Amelia's face broke out into a grin. "I don't know what anyone has told you in the past, but that was brilliant. You made concessions in your argument, yet you flipped your original point and offered a new perspective that I'd not considered. You are truly bright, truly _smart_, Penelope, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

"You should be an inspirational speaker," Bernadette continued. "We definitely need more of those nowadays. We can bill you as the Clever and Charismatic Cowgirl, straight from the Nebraska plains."

"You guys," Penelope said, inhaling shakily. Her green eyes were bright and shimmery, her face so full of happiness it might explode rainbows at the slightest provocation. She gathered the pair up into a quick embrace, resting her head on Amelia's shoulder. If she had tried for Bernie's, she would have most likely missed and hit her head. She released them, Amelia thought with significant reluctance.

"You'll make my face run," she chastised, slipping her fingers under the black lines at the creases of her eyes. Even crying she still looked perfect.

"You'll do well," Bernadette said, ushering her toward the entrance.

"It'll take no longer than an hour, tops!" Penelope said, opening the impressive glass door on the bottom floor of the tower. She threw a glance up at the stone lion once more. "Maybe ole' Leo will give me a little luck."

"If he doesn't, I know his namesake will be just as proud of you when you get done," Amelia said.

"Thanks girls." Penelope swept into the lobby area.

"Luck!" They both cried, waving at the last glimpse of their friend.

"So," Bernadette said. "Lunch?"

"You read my mind. I'm famished."

The remaining ladies about-faced and hit the strip, glancing at the menus in the glass cases on the outside of the swanky cafés and delis in Beverley. They were both professional women, but it didn't mean they could be frivolous with their funds just because they fancied a brunch.

"How's Howard doing?" Amelia asked. "Our paths haven't crossed recently."

"Well. He's busy with schematics and the like on weapons development. He's actually more keyed up over his pen pal than the tank engine he's supposed to be working on."

"His pen pal?"

"He corresponds with this man over in England. The friendship's been years in the making, and apparently he's been commissioned as an officer for Great Britain. He'll be moving in with a unit to Europe, and Howard's extremely worried."

"But there's not much you can do," Amelia said.

"No there's not, unfortunately. I just hug him when I can," Bernadette replied.

"Any further developments at the hospital?" Amelia asked, shifting focus. "I know you were doing some volunteer work with the convalescing patients."

"I think I might ask for a permanent transfer to rehab," Bernadette said.

"Really? I thought you liked working in the pharmacology department."

"I did. But they've been giving us these new 'scripts we're supposed to write for soldiers who've had TBIs. And Amelia, they're bad. Something in the chemical makeup; these guys are in fits after they take them."

"What's the drug called?"

"Pracoxsin. It's a codeine opiate for pain suppression, but they only prescribe it to the patients that undergo ECT."

"ECT? No wonder they need pain meds. They're already practicing that treatment at McCormack General?" Amelia asked.

"I know, I know," Bernadette raised her hands. "I don't agree with it anymore than you do. That's why I'm asking for the transfer."

"There's no definitive proof that ECT even—"

"I didn't want to get you riled up," Bernadette said. "I should have known this would be a sore point with you. The brain is your baby."

"And sticking electrodes with controlled pulses onto a baby is _not_ a good idea, no matter what Cerletti and Bini argue. You said it's just for the patients with traumatic brain injuries?"

"We're one of the biggest army hospitals on the west coast. Of course we get the soldiers who aren't fit to go back. The patients with missing limbs, and flesh diseases… and loads of TBIs. The ones that go… what do they call it? Funny in the head." Bernadette stared down at the sidewalk.

"It's some form of traumatic psychosis," Amelia said.

Bernie nodded. "I walked into one of the store rooms, to stock up on syringes. The… the lights flickered, Amelia. I heard a patient screaming. At least in the physical rehabilitation department, I don't have to question what I'm giving the patients. Drugs the FDA hasn't had time to look at because of this _stupid _war… when I'm helping with physical therapy, I can see the results. See if I'm helping or harming."

"First do no harm…" Amelia mumbled.

"It's leagues away from microbiology," Bernadette admitted. "But I can't see staying there, doing something that's not right. It's a matter of principle."

"I wholeheartedly agree."

"I didn't mean to go on such a rant," Bernadette said.

"Rant away! We've still got forty minutes to kill before Penelope's out of her audition."

"How about this?" Bernadette asked, directing Amelia's attention to a quaint café down a side street, white and purple awning stripes flapping lazily in the almost summer wind. The smaller blonde perked up and they turned, positioning themselves in line before the bistro counter.

"What are you thinking?" Bernadette asked, standing on tip-toes to see the menu. An older, middle-aged couple ordered in front of them, blocking the view.

"There's a chicken salad that looks good. And by good, I mean affordable. Though there's also a soup-of-the-day." Amelia noticed the man in front of her twitch as he glimpsed her over his shoulder.

"What is it?"

"Carrot and coriander."

"Ummm. I'm getting that!" Bernadette said, rubbing her stomach.

"Big on soup?"

"I'm big on anything that's not brisket. Howie's mother makes it as least twice a week, and it's so heavy." Bernadette looked up to Amelia with a grin. She saw her petite friend's eyes pause on her Star of David necklace, and then the blonde's face fell.

"I didn't mean anything by that," she said.

"No offense taken," Amelia continued. "You get tired of the same thing over and over again, whether it's kosher or not."

"Howie's food selections don't often adhere to all of the dietary rules. But he likes to try whenever we visit his mother's house."

"He's the only son of a Jewish mother," Amelia answered. "Not all the stereotypes are true, but from what I've heard of her, she seems like she doesn't put up with any mishegas. I keep kosher when I cook, and I try to watch the traif when I'm out. But I don't like to put anyone out on my account."

She heard a low growl from the patron in front of her.

"_Then what the hell are we fighting for_?!" A booming bass shouted.

Suddenly, the older man in front of Bernadette wheeled around and poked Amelia in the chest.

"What the _hell_ is it all for?!" he yelled at Amelia. His eyes were red around the rims and his wife was tugging on his shirt sleeve, begging him to turn back around to the food counter. He shuffled and gripped the back of a nearby chair for balance. "You don't want to put anyone out, ya' damn _yenta_? What about the hundreds of thousands of boys over there fighting 'cause of your people?! Cause of this?!"

He snatched at Amelia's necklace, shattering the links of the thin chain that hung about her neck. He balled the necklace up and shook his fist at her.

"Duncan, please," the older, graying woman was crying, tugging, pulling on his jacket sleeve. There was a ruckus behind the counter but Amelia was plastered to the spot, paralysis part from shock, part from fear, and part from sheer indignation.

"Get offa' me, woman," the man said, pushing his wife to the floor. He jostled the necklace in front of Amelia's face.

Amelia was so incensed she broke her silence.

"Now hold on just a minute—"

"Did I tell you to speak, _Jew_?" the man spat.

"Duncan, don't. Please miss, he's not well. It's our sons. We've lost—"

"You think Shylock's whore can talk to me like that?"

"Sir, I don't think—"

"The feds can't keep you out with immigration, all the kike's infiltrating our businesses—"

"Mam', are you alright—"

"William," the woman on the floor wailed. "And Matthew. Our boys, it's too soon. We shouldn't have come out—"

"Shut up, WOMAN!" Duncan yelled, jowled cheeks trembling. "My boys _died _for you," he said, flailing in Amelia's direction. "I don't know why, but here I stand, and here you are. Some Jewish princess made it to America; meanwhile, _real_ fuckin' Americans are getting blown to chunks 'cause of the rest of your tribes."

Amelia was speechless.

"I'm sorry, so sorry," the woman said, rising with Bernadette's aid.

"Matt and Billy…" the man said, voice cracking. "Go on home while you can, you… Stein."

There were servers approaching from behind the counters. Two teenage waiters looked like they were ready to tackle the old man from behind.

"And take your fuckin' star with you," Duncan said, throwing the necklace at Amelia's feet.

Amelia just stared at the man. It was like sensory overload. She noted one boy, who brandished a broom like a sword; Bernadette, hovering over the sobbing wife in the chair; two frightened cooks, cowering behind the counter; a couple on the opposite side of the café, horror-stricken at the scene; and, possibly the worst, an older gentleman in the corner, sipping his coffee calmly as he could, as if nothing outrageous were going on around him.

"Did you not hear me?" the man, Duncan, asked, breaching Amelia's personal space.

She saw Bernadette rise and reach for the man's arm. Amelia stopped her with a look. The man was frantic; there was no telling what he might do if Bernadette tried to touch him.

"I said, Pick. Up. Your. Damn. Star."

Amelia crouched down to the feet of the man to retrieve her necklace, never breaking eye contact with him. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction. He was grieving, she knew. But that was no excuse. As she stood, prolonging eye contact, her one hint of defiance against tortured, grievous hatred, she braced herself for what she knew was coming. And when the spit hit her in the face, she didn't flinch. Amelia merely backed away.

"Bernadette, let's go."

She retreated with dignity, not letting the tears fall until they were a good three blocks from the MGM tower. She kept her eyes glued to the top floor as they walked, chain dangling from her shaking fingers. She held her head high, but could still feel the slimy saliva on her chin. Amelia wasn't very hungry anymore.

* * *

_**UUUUUGGGGGGHHHHHH. I CANNOT EVEN you guys. As evinced by this chapter. **_

_**Chapter justification: this is the result of the 7x06 taping report speculation, 7x05's promo photos, and Raiders, which I just watched a few hours ago, as well as a host of other personal quirks which apparently mean I like to make the characters I write suffer. What that says about me, well...**_

_**I'd appreciate any and all feedback. I'm so anxious to get all the Coomelia... Ameloop... goodness into the piece. (SHAMY is just so much easier).**_


	13. A Different Kind of Therapy

_**CBS, Chuck Lorre, Bill Prady, and Steve Molaro own The Big Bang Theory. I do not. Excuse me while I burst into tears. Enjoy!**_

* * *

"I want to go home."

"You're coming to my apartment."

"Penelope, honestly, I'm fine. I just need to be by myself for a little bit."

"I know, which is why you're coming to my place."

"I appreciate your trying, but I don't see how wine is going to make this any better."

"Contrary to what you and your bug-eyed boy might think, I don't solve every problem I have with cheap alcohol." Penelope stopped and surveyed her tear-stained friend's face. "I'm thinking of a different kind of therapy."

The day took on a dull grey gloom after the incident in the café. Clouds shifted inland from the west and shadows covered the sidewalk. The threesome walked home through alternating overcast patches and stunted brightness. Amelia was slightly ahead, and Bernie relayed their encounter with Duncan and his wife in high, sibilant whispers to Penelope. Amelia was determined to separate from Penelope when Bernadette broke away from the group, dashing down a side street for her bus after a quick hug and a pitying look. Penelope, however, had other plans. She gripped Amelia's arm like a vice and walked closely beside her, refusing to let go as she directed them toward the cable car that would take them back to the Los Robles neighborhood.

Penelope didn't say much. For all her flaws in the intellectual field, she excelled in situational analysis. She simply reaffirmed that yes, they were indeed going to her apartment, and no, she didn't have to talk to anyone if she didn't want to. She opened the door and Amelia followed, head down, into the lobby.

"Wait here for a second," Penelope directed, darting around a corner down the stairwell to the basement. Amelia leaned back against the broken elevator door, the metal grating groaning under her weight. She desperately wanted to go home and lose herself in a book. Or turn on the radio. Anything to forget what it felt like to stoop in front of that man, in front of all of those people. She felt lower than a paramecium, which was, in the biological classification system, lower than pond scum. Penelope appeared back around the corner with a thick gingham laundry bag with two drawstring rope pulls at the top.

"Up we go," she said, patting Amelia on the shoulders.

Climbing in silence was welcome. Amelia didn't want to be here, and she resented Penelope for her meddling. Just let her be to stew in her own contempt. She removed her purse from across her shoulder and slumped to sit on Penelope's couch.

"What are you doing?"

"Uhm… making myself comfortable? You dragged me here against my will. I figured I'd try to make the best of it."

"You're not staying here, come on," Penelope insisted, ushering her into her bedroom. "Put these on," she said, thrusting a light cotton shirt and matching shorts in her direction. "You can change in the bathroom," she said, jerking her thumb over her shoulder.

"Penelope, I really don't know how this is going to—"

"Do you trust me?"

"Not fully."

"At least you're honest," Penelope said with a half-frown, grabbing shirts, slacks, blouses and skirts, dresses and under things. "I think you'll appreciate this."

"If we end up doing your laundry, I'll be even angrier than I already am," she mumbled, shutting the door to the bathroom.

Amelia resurfaced from the toilet, yellow cotton fabric stretched tight over her chest, high-waisted shorts hitting much higher on the leg than any of her own clothes. She felt as exposed physically as she was emotionally. She tucked the shirt into the waistband, attempting to find some comfort in wrapping up tight with the provided outfit, like she did with her quilts during her night terrors.

"Penelope, I don't know where you're going with this," Amelia said, crossing her arms over her chest. "I'm already humiliated enough. I'm sad, I don't really want to be around anyone right—"

"Let's go back downstairs before we start the pity party," Penelope said, hoisting the bag full of clothes over her shoulder with the surprising strength of a Nebraskan farmhand. It was nearly as big as she was.

"Fine," Amelia huffed.

The trip down to the basement washroom was uneventful. Amelia had only been back one other time since the night of the Pearl Harbor bombings. _It felt like ages ago. _Coop had been so flustered over one of his equations postulating fission properties in a uranium nucleus he had been thrown off his schedule by several hours. At his request, Amelia had helped him wash, dry, fold, starch and iron his clothes, secretly thrilled that he had included her in such an intimate ritual. But now, this was the last place she wanted to be.

Penelope wrestled with the bag and she threw it to the ground.

"Just a second." The blonde upended an empty trashcan from the corner near one of the fancy, electric-run Maytag washers, and pushed it to the middle of the room. Hanging from an exposed beam in the ceiling was a sturdy chain. Penelope stood on her heeled tip-toes and made a grab at it, descending with the iron links.

"Gimme a hand, would you?" she said, hauling the load of clothes on to the top of the trashcan. "Oh, almost forgot!" she dashed toward the closed elevator shaft and pried the grated doors open. She disappeared into the dark, Amelia all the more confused by this odd series of tasks. Penelope emerged with three large sacks of flour.

"Are we baking?" Amelia asked.

"No." She stuffed them down into the laundry bag, whitening some of her clothes in the process.

"That's getting all over your stuff," Amelia said.

"It's worth it. I promise. Alright, I'm going to stand on the trashcan. Can you grab the bag from the bottom and hold it while I hook it up?"

"Sure. But I still don't see where this is going."

Amelia crouched down and hefted the bag upward while Penelope fiddled with the drawstrings and chain. Upon completion, the waitress leaped down from the trashcan and shoved it across the room with her foot, in and out of the elevator shaft once more before Amelia could get a good look at the dangling laundry bag.

Penelope was securing the bottom of the bag to the nearby leg of the sturdy folding table. It was the most convoluted, jury-rigged apparatus Amelia had come across since she'd met the woman. But Penelope had asked for trust. Amelia just didn't realize she'd be staring at some home-made contraption designed for… what, exactly?

"Alright," Penelope said, withdrawing two ace bandages from her pockets. "Give me your hands."

"This is silly."

"Just try it," Penelope said. "Thirty minutes, and if you hate it, we never have to mention it again."

Amelia rolled her eyes as Penelope wrapped her hands, the tightness around her wrists foreign but not uncomfortable.

"Hit it," Penelope said, eyeing the laundry bag.

Amelia swung lazily, nudging the bag with her open palm.

"You're not taking this seriously."

"You think?" Amelia said, snippy. "I'm sorry, but hitting this bag isn't going to make me feel any better."

"You say that now," Penelope said, rising from her prop against the table. "Jab, cross, and uppercut," she said, demonstrating with her own farm-work toned biceps. "My dad was a Navy boxer who could never get over that I wasn't a boy. I trained in our barn until I was twelve and my mother put her foot down." She took Amelia's hand in her own. "You want to hit here, with these two knuckles on your index and middle finger so the punches are stacked. If you hit with these," she said, brushing her fingers over the ring and pinky knuckles, "you'll chance a break with a glancing blow. Now go on, hit it."

"I can't just waylay the bag!"

Penelope narrowed her eyes. "Every part I didn't get. Every bad break up I ever had. Every bill I couldn't pay, and this thing was down here. You've got to release it, Amelia. If not, you'll just hold onto it and explode on someone that doesn't deserve it. Believe me, Leo knows that all too well," she said, staring nostalgically at the bag. Penelope regarded it with the same reverence one might attribute to a beloved Christmas ornament, dusted off occasionally and hung at the appropriate time.

She made her way back to the elevator shaft and threw something against the side of the wall. It clanged, followed by an echoey metal sound. Amelia heard the scratch of needle on vinyl and suddenly, loud trumpeting music filled the basement.

"Won't someone hear this?" Amelia asked, dubious.

"Leo figured it out. Something about the reverb in the shaft and the acoustics. It could be coming from any floor. No one will know whether it's from down here or the top floor apartment."

"And what if someone needs to do laundry?" she spoke louder, talking over the record player.

"Got it covered." Penelope pulled a piece of cardboard out of the shaft, 'out of order' scribbled in black ink on the home-made sign. "None will be the wiser."

"Looks like you've got everything figured out," Amelia said, hands crossed over her chest again. She was starting to think this was her default position.

"Yep. Seems a shame not to take advantage of such a fine-tuned system," Penelope said, standing beside the bag.

"It's just… it's just not me. People are stupid, Penelope—"

"Don't I know it."

The record kept playing, big band music nearly drowning out the duo's speech in the brick-walled basement.

"But I don't think this will help me feel better about what that man said. It's just something I'll have to live with," Amelia said.

Penelope's face fell. "What? You're just going to take it lying down?" she said, anger distorting her pleasant features.

"There's nothing I can do about it."

"Bull!" the blonde yelled over the music, taking a step closer to Amelia. "And I went through all the trouble of rigging it up. You don't even appreciate it!" she screamed, hitting the bag with her own shoulder. "Maybe that guy was right…" she mumbled, voice nearly lost in the staccato snare drum on the record.

"What was that?" Amelia asked over the sound.

"Just… nothing, forget it," Penelope said.

"No. I want to know what you said."

"God, Amelia, let it go already."

"_No_!" Amelia yelled, her own anger returning. "You said he was right… the guy at the café."

"Well what do you expect?!" Penelope yelled, throwing her hands up in the air. "I come down here, trying to help you, and you don't even care. Just like you don't even care that those guys are over there dying for you! Probably just engrained in you. Can't help genetics."

"As if you know anything about genetics."

"You don't see the Third Reich making off with pretty blond girls," she said, flipping her hair antagonistically.

"That's wrong," Amelia said, muscles tensing.

"No it's not," Penelope said, looming over Amelia.

"Take it back!"

"Make me… _Jew_."

"Aryan princess!"

"Hymie slut!"

"SHUT UP!" Amelia said, swinging her right arm with such force that the beam above them shuddered. She connected squarely with the bag after Penelope popped behind it for cover, only to follow up with a nasty left cross that Penelope easily deflected by moving the bulk of the bag in front of her body.

Amelia kept swinging, for every snicker she heard growing up, every double-take because of her name, her parents, and her lineage. The music of the big band record clanged in her skull along with poisonous thoughts, bouncing slurs and insults, rejections and glares off of her body and onto the bag. She didn't know how long she danced about, jabbing and punching until sweat fell from her head and her hair fell in her face. She was breathing heavily, hunched over, hands on her bare knees when Penelope released her hold on the bag. She stepped out warily, knowing smile tugging at the corners of her perfect lips.

"You know I didn't mean a word of it."

"I know," Amelia huffed, standing properly once again.

"How do you feel?"

"Better. Much better." She knocked the bag easily with her closed fist. It swayed slightly without Penelope holding it, but remained anchored by the tether running from its bottom to the laundry table leg. Amelia followed the rope with her eyes, head down once more.

"I'm so sorry."

"Hey," Penelope said, embracing her sweaty form. She held her by the shoulders, ducking her own head to catch Amelia's eyes. "I know you didn't mean it either. And stop looking down," she said, tilting Amelia's chin up. "You're worth more than that."

Amelia's eyes were swimming, a small grin back on her face.

"Want to go upstairs?" Penelope asked.

"No, I'd… I'd rather stay down here, if you don't mind."

"I don't mind at all," Penelope said, turning toward the staircase.

"Penelope!"

The blonde paused on the bottom step.

"Thank you. Truly."

Penelope smiled and nodded her head. "I really am a pretty fair actress," she said, smirking.

Amelia laughed for the first time since that morning.

"Could you take the 'out of order' sign and prop it by the door?" Amelia asked. She glared at the bag. Duncan's face stared down at her, lips pursing as if he were preparing to spit on her again. "I might be down here a while."

* * *

The stale _whir_ of the turntable rebounded off the walls of the elevator shaft. The record had ended minutes, hours or days ago. The only sounds she heard were her nerve endings screaming, her dendrites popping, and her axons shrieking as she assaulted the stout laundry bag. She blew air from between her top and bottom rows of teeth, sucking another breath in as she pummeled the bag into submission. Sweat flowed freely along her torso, the stains under her armpits little half-moons of discoloration, the moisture under her breasts chaffing uncomfortably. Amelia could not see, but rather felt the _t_ of perspiration spreading along the back of Penelope's bold yellow shirt. Her chapped lips tasted like salt, and a sweaty mustache tickled her nostrils when she sniffed. Her long hair had fallen from its tie and her muscles ached, triceps tight. Her arms shook with fatigue, but the bout with the bag had morphed into something more than just taking out her frustrations concerning the café-bully. Amelia's knuckles were raw, bleeding through the rough fabric with which Penelope had so carefully reinforced her hands. She flexed her clenched fingers and the red spread a little. The jolt of satisfaction was unfamiliar and perplexing. She hit the bag again.

The slit of a window at the top of the basement was more of a clock than a source of illumination; she'd been down here long enough for the sun to set. Two bare bulbs lit the basement, buzzing and hot. Just like her body. She backed away finally, and swung her arms like windmills, the bones in their sockets grinding from exertion.

_Should I continue?_

She felt she could, though she'd not eaten anything since breakfast. She knew what was happening, though. Those pesky neurotransmitters were fueling a high she couldn't end just yet. Her sympathetic nervous system was radiating seratonin, norepinephrine boosting her mood and energy levels. NYU had done the exercise stress tests and recorded the physiological responses. She had applied to that research team. She had been rejected.

The tip of her tongue darted over the line of her lower lip as she rested her hands at her hips. The yellow shirt had completely changed colors. It was now more of a sad mustard, and probably reeked of body odor and aggression. She contemplated the hemline, thinking of disposing the garment altogether until she was ready to retreat from her new found solace. Amelia's presence in the basement had been undisturbed thus far. Penelope was the only one who knew she was down here. She could shed the shirt like a snake skin and continue in her brassiere and girdle. Recalling Penelope's words, _none would be the wiser_. Before stripping down like a minx at the _Folies Bergére_, she performed a quick survey of the basement. She said a silent prayer later, thankful for her foresight. She spied Coop, settled on the fifth stair from the bottom of the landing. He had a basket of folded garments at his side and his nose deep in an _Action Comics_ serial. She released the hem of her shirt and hastily tucked it back into her shorts.

"Were you intending to sit in silence while I had my way with your neighbor's stress-relieving contraption?" she asked.

He held up an index finger and continued skimming his picture book. Amelia brushed her drooping hair from her brow, fidgeting while Coop finished his comic.

"Now I'm done," he declared.

She looked back at him and sighed, buttocks finding a prop at the edge of the clothes-folding table. Her hands cramped, and she automatically curled her fingers around the table edge, ligaments taut and straining.

"I wasn't leering, if that's what you're worried about," Coop said, voice filling the quiet.

"Who says I was worried?" she asked.

"I don't know," he answered, carefully placing his comic book in the laundry basket.

Amelia cracked her neck from side to side. Her jaw remained closed.

"When I saw that sign I knew it was one of Penelope's usual ruses to keep tenants from appropriately laundering their garments," Coop tried. "As I had just seen Penelope at _my_ apartment, I planned to go up and give her what for."

"We did commandeer the room. I'm sorry to have put you out," Amelia said.

"Penelope told me what happened."

Amelia rolled her eyes and fiddled with the fraying edges of the bag. "I'm over it."

"As evinced by the state of that poor garment receptacle," Coop said, readjusting his clothes basket and standing from the stairstep. "I confess, I came down to see to your well-being. There was nothing voyeuristic whatsoever about my presence on the stairs. You were just so engrossed in your…" he waved a hand at Penelope's device. "… exercise, I didn't want to disturb you."

"Don't you have to finish your laundry?"

"I'm laundering all of my clothes as I pack them, and have extended my schedule to accommodate the extra loads. I won't be able to check the facilities at Berkeley prior to my arrival. I'd rather my suits be ready for wear without depending upon uninvestigated Laundromats in the area."

"This is a wonderful opportunity for you. You want to look your most professional."

"My sentiments exactly."

"And your progress thus far in the packing regimen?"

"Quantitatively, I'm approximately seventy percent of the way through with my list. I've still got this load to clean, a harrowing decision as to what books to bring along, and the all-important task of running over my _in absentia_ checklist for the apartment with Leo."

"And qualitatively?"

"I'm not completely happy with the comic book distribution in my suitcases. So many things could get ruined in those luggage cars on the trains, I may repack the bags for better quality control."

"Well, you have all day tomorrow. You're off to UCB Monday morning, then?" Amelia asked.

"Yes, and you're coming with Leo and Penelope to the train station?"

"I am."

"I can't help but think you are asking me about the inconsequential details of my packing experience to bypass any uncomfortable questions I have regarding the anti-Semite who publicly humiliated you earlier today by spitting in your face."

"I can't help but be surprised at your terming any details 'inconsequential'."

"Amelia."

She had to appreciate his frankness.

"You read about bigoted gang-beatings in the papers, you know?" she said, rising from the table. "At least in the _good_ papers." She bent her knees, crouching for greater force. She had discovered this trick about five minutes into her first go-round. Practice indeed makes perfect.

"New York has seen an increased number of discriminatory outbreaks against the Jewish population," Coop offered.

"And La Guardia's too busy with the Office of Civilian Defense to do anything about it," Amelia said, throwing a hefty punch at the bag. It swung, contained, like a heavy bell in a tower.

"It was the first time anything like that has ever happened to me," she confessed. "Well, anything so blatantly public. It makes me wonder sometimes…" she rained a series of punches against the bag, crosses with uppercuts sporadically thrown in, the bag twisting under her force.

She finally stopped, holding her tired arms out at length, hands white-knuckle gripping the sides of the bag. She twisted her head to the side and saw Coop, leaning against the wall of the stairwell, hands in his pockets, watching and listening to her with a patience she did not know he was capable of exerting.

"It makes me wonder if I could have gotten a research job if I had a cross around my neck instead of a star."

"There's no definitive proof to support your statement, but, at the risk of sounding trite, absence of evidence—"

"Is not evidence of absence, I know," she said.

"Well, I'm sure you don't need me to tell you that certain people, even when they are not in the throes of grief, are irrevocably malicious."

"You're right."

"And that those people deserved to be socked in the jaw repeatedly, so I'm glad you're practicing," Coop gave her a close-lipped grin.

"I thought you adhered to a policy of non-violence."

"That was before some base, ignorant rogue spit on my girlfriend."

"I don't want you to compromise your principles for me."

"Which is precisely why I _should_ compromise them."

There was a beat, and the two looked anywhere in the room but at each other.

"Thank you," Amelia said.

"I've done nothing."

"But you have my gratitude, all the same."

"Would you like to go upstairs? You've been down here quite a while," he said.

"I would appreciate that, yes. But I've got to get this thing down."

"Do you need assistance?" he asked, approaching her.

"Can you undo the chain from the drawstring ropes? I'm not tall enough to reach it."

Coop stood back and glared at the sloppy knot Penelope had twisted into place on the chain hook.

"It will be easier if you relieve some of the weight from the bottom of the bag so I have slack to release the strings from their knot. The tension would otherwise render me incapable of untying it. Can you hold it up?"

"Sure."

Amelia positioned herself underneath the bag, much like she had earlier with Penelope. Coop's left hip brushed against her stooped shoulder. She was thankful her body had already been shaking from exertion, or her shudder would have betrayed her.

"Let me know when you've gotten it undone," she directed. "Because this is too heavy for me and I don't want to drop it on your foot."

"Alright."

She lifted and he tugged, an oddly seamless performance for such an unusual task.

"I've found the cinch. I'm pulling it out," he said.

As the bag plopped onto the ground, a mushroom cloud of white puffed out over the top. The pair jumped back, but it didn't stop the tiny particles from staining their skin and clothes, residual granules floating like cauliflower puffs to the floor.

"Good Lord!" Coop shouted. "What is this fresh hell?!"

"Haha!" Amelia laughed. She got the brunt of the white out, her sweaty skin a much better host for the flour than Coop's. "Penelope stores these flour bags in the elevator shaft over there," Amelia pointed at the open door. "They give the bag some extra weight. I guess I just got a little carried away and busted it."

"You must have worked through a few personal issues in addition to today's persecution to render such damage."

"Yes," Amelia said, waving her hand at the settling cloud. "Religious persecution, professional discontent, global injustice… You missed my entire existential crisis."

She sifted through the clothes and flour, trying to salvage what few pieces she could.

"I hope she's not too cross with me dirtying her things," Amelia said.

"It's her own fault for unleashing the weapon inside of you."

"Unleashing the weapon?"

"From what Penelope told me, you've been down here for over three hours."

"Oh," Amelia said, suddenly concerned. Had she really spent that long pummeling that poor bag, resolving whatever resentment she contained because of that man in the coffee shop? Judging from the eviscerated flour sack and her ghost-white boyfriend, she had to admit, her dabbling in this aggressive physical relief may have gone a bit too far on her first outing.

"I don't intend to make this a habit."

"I wouldn't stop, you know, if it… helped," Coop said vaguely, his eyes roaming her sweaty, flour-covered figure. "And, I understand that this will not be a welcome statement given Penelope's reaction in the past, but I feel I must tell you."

"What is it?"

"You look disgusting."

"I _feel_ disgusting," Amelia admitted.

"You can wash up before you leave. I'm sure Penelope has your clothes stowed away somewhere."

"Oh, right," Amelia said, having almost forgotten her discomfort in the tight t-shirt and shorter-than-usual shorts. "She does have my things."

"I didn't think those were yours," Coop said, the pink in his cheeks bursting through the thin layer of white. He tentatively touched her bare arm, a fingerprint of olive skin standing out like a cattle brand. "You're like sand." He moved closer and sketched an equation across her forearm, direct and determined strokes. He didn't linger over her skin.

"Now, you're balanced," he proclaimed.

"Well, you look like Casper," she accused.

"I never liked that children's book."

"Why?"

"It's about ghosts. It's scary."

"He was a _friendly_ ghost."

"Irrelevant." He patted his chest and popped open his watched, wiping at the glass lens with the interior lining of his shirt cuff. "Chop, chop! You need to head on up if you want to get the last cable back to your apartment."

"But what about all of this?"

"I'll do it. As I've said, I'm already over halfway through with my list, and I know that Penelope wouldn't take the time to launder her clothes properly even if she had a time machine."

"I could help. It's my fault you're such a mess anyway."

"Yes, the fault is yours," Coop said in his occasional tone of school teacher crossed with scolding parent. "But it will only take me longer to tell you what to do. And you should really get cleaned up and have something to eat. Go on, now."

Amelia turned toward the stairs, white powder trailing in her wake.

"I have a first aid kit in the cabinet three feet to the right of the sink. Put something on your knuckles," he instructed, wringing the flour out of Penelope's clothes.

"Coop," she squeaked.

He didn't hear her. He had tunnel-vision for his presorting.

"Cooper?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

* * *

_**Reviews appreciated :D **_


	14. Bombshell

_**Usual disclaimers apply.**_

**Late Summer, 1942  
**

"But the circumference of the shaft will be much too expansive. Stability will be compromised."

"We can't even speculate about structure until we have a plan for execution."

"The uranium isn't popping up like spring daisies. It is imperative that the execution go smoothly, the very first time."

"And if it backfires, well, it's been lovely arguing with you gentlemen."

"It won't backfire around _me_, that's for sure. You can have fun at the testing site on your own time."

"If the uranium can't withstand the pressure, why can't we talk to Chicago and negotiate for the plutonium?"

"Because they have just as much plutonium as we do uranium. Which, currently, isn't enough to start a scout bonfire let alone intimidate Axis forces. But we _will_ get it, and when we do, we damn well better have a way to detonate it!"

"We've got plutonium ourselves, right out there in the facilities tucked behind a wheat field off the campus. Just pop down to the Rad Lab and pick you up a sample. It's just a little bigger than a sand grain, but we'll see how transport and activation come into play."

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," Oppie stood, swilling clear liquid in a glass tumbler, olive bobbing up and down on the tooth pick protruding from his lip. "This," he said, gesturing toward a board of sloppy shapes and numbers, parabolas and axes, "is only the fine print. Think bigger. Think… _end game_. I want to know how you take out an enemy without any risk to your person. Don't be such scientists. Be soldiers."

Coop looked at the board, head tilted, upper body wound tighter than the spring mechanism in his pocket watch. September third, and they were still no closer to feasibly implementing a trigger device for detonation. In fact, they were no closer to knowing what that detonation could ultimately do, considering plutonium had only been invented within the last year, and the uranium ore isotope extracted within roughly the same time frame. Much of July had been spent on Teller, the bastion of the hydrogen bomb. His Hungarian accent was so thick, he had to explain the principles multiple times before the room could fully comprehend his designs and suggestions. Not that they were on board once they understood. In fact, understanding made it much less bearable.

Understanding was the worst of all.

The room was so thick with smoke Coop had to sit on the open windowsill, looking out over the Berkeley foothills. They reminded him of the rolling hills of his home back in east Texas. Geographical nostalgia was replaced by arithmetic, as he added crest and trough measurements to determine the length along the _y_ axis, the sloping up and down wavelength calculations… _If the frequency of a transverse wave is supplied to find the particle speed in basic wave function_… He misliked the hills here, inconsistent in height and distance, variables too inconstant for a projected graph of displacement spiraling out from the determined equilibrium position.

So many angles and curves, throwing him for loops, jumbling the once clear pathways in his mind. Just like… The ridge on the horizon morphed into a floating rib straining against the light cotton of an ill-fitting yellow shirt. He remembered smelling sweat. And further down, pine trees at the base of a collection of wooded knolls melted together into a shiny, brassy brown, rippling over a curved shoulder in the setting sunlight. Wind relieved the heat of the crowded room, but on the breeze he could have sworn he heard a woman's throaty voice whispering about amygdalas and neuromodulators. _Inappropriate_. _This is not an appropriate time for these thoughts. _

It was hell.

"I'm not fully convinced the plutonium isotope is stable enough for use." It was van Vleck, American despite the name, cautious despite the expertise. His work on radar systems out at MIT had only scratched the proverbial surface for new navigational technologies, but his career in magnetics had garnered him an impressive title: the Father of Modern Magnetism. What he maintained in scientific esteem he lacked in visible aesthete. The man was beginning to swell in his middle-age, grey, receding hairline looking more unfortunate than distinguished. He was always so very grave. It was as if they were at war, or something.

"Neither am I," Oppie said, scratching an equation on the board with no pretense, no introduction or explanation. He slurped the rest of his martini loudly and erased it, letters and numbers dissolving like sugar in coffee. Not that anyone had sugar anymore, what with the mandated rations. "But that doesn't mean we don't go ahead with it."

"We _'ave_ to do shomezing," Teller continued. "If we just revisit sheh idea of sheh fusion, not sheh _fission_ reaction, den we will have control of sheh fazists."

"And the entire previous month, what have we done?" Oppie asked aggressively. "We've come close, but close only counts in hand grenades and horseshoes, to which a number of young Americans can probably attest."

Oppie had become increasingly macabre as the summer conference waned, perhaps due to his lack of productivity. With the greatest theoretical minds in the world locked away for a few months together, _something_ had to happen. And that something did not include the pick-up lounge band they had formed with Feynman leading on the bongos.

"Hydrogen could be sheh way," Teller said again. The dark, insistent European man limped over to the window near Coop and exhaled, breathing long and patchy. The tangy cigar smoke stung Coop's nostrils. Like raccoon guts and cat piss, as his father liked to say.

"It doesn't matter what we have, plutonium, uranium, hydrogen, unless we can shoot it at something!" Oppie yelled.

"Shoot it…"

Heads turned toward Coop, lanky body framed distinctly in the paneling of the window. The twilight didn't help. Looking back years later, he would think on this moment, the moment that he should have held his tongue, instead of spouting off half-cocked ideas just to rid himself of the chatter. He didn't know being on Oppie's team would mean doing this— something so theoretically difficult but tangibly necessary. His mind wanted depiction, numbers on a board, not bodies on the ground. But that's what all of his work, all of his efforts, were coming to. He rose from the window, an odd silhouetted figure with an idea for explosion. He walked over to the sloppy board and picked up a piece of chalk.

"You said you wanted to shoot it at someone," Coop began, etching two parallel lines along the gridded board.

"I want the damn thing to activate at a safe distance," Oppie said.

"We don't know what a safe distance is yet, so we can't even include that as a possible factor."

"Just what are you on about, Cooper?" Felix Bloch asked. Coop liked Bloch. Mainly because Bloch had been so kind to Amelia on her first weekend visit, but also because the man stood by his calculations. Acquiring a doctorate under Werner Heisenberg was certainly nothing to shake a stick at, either.

"I'm talking about shooting, basic marksmanship," Coop said. Tired, black eyes stared back at him. "With a gun."

"What do you know about guns?" Bloch asked.

"More than half the snipers we have in the forces currently," Coop answered easily.

"Why?" Oppie queried.

"I was raised in Texas. Call it a prerequisite."

He stood back from his crude drawing, and began hastily sketching numbers for an equation with the critical mass of uranium-235.

"It's certainly not elegant, I'm no engineer," Coop said.

"Who would want to be?"

Oppie silenced the room with a look.

"But if we can keep the U-235 separate until time for activation, we can control the point of impact with the target," Coop said, circling the indicated section at the end of the parallel lines. Dark eyes brightened as realization struck. He had drawn a barrel. A _gun_ barrel. Only this gun had a uranium bullet and a definite target. Or was that a hollow bullet with a uranium target? Either way, their precious U-235, that costly isotope, was going to be released. Violently.

"We can maintain some structural integrity with an alignment rod, some sort of reinforced sleeve… But it only has to hold it for transport. It obviously won't stand up to controlled fission implosion."

"It's none the more costly than a rifle," Oppie said. Dubious stares and whispers filled the room. "I meant, considering what we're using for ammunition. We all know how expensive it is to separate the uranium isotopes for fuel—"

"Not to mention risky," Hans Bethe said.

"The design. It's simple, uncomplicated. And allows for time to get outta' Dodge before activating the fission implosion properties," Oppie said. "What made you think of it, Coop?"

"You said you wanted to shoot uranium at some Germans. I thought this might have been a better option than a sling-shot."

"There's that Cooper sarcasm we've come to love," Van Vlech said testily.

"Not sarcastic in the least. I _genuinely _thought this would be better than a slingshot."

"And on that note, I think it's time we adjourned to our chambers," Oppie said, clapping his hands together. "We'll spend more time on this over the next few days. Unless anyone can develop a better method, I think it wise to focus our energies on constructing some proper schematics and trigger operations for a fission-type gun weapon. Dismissed."

The men, ranging in age from mid-twenties to nearly sixties, grumbled in heavy accents and gruff voices, stubbing out cigarettes just to light more as they stepped out into the hallway.

"Cooper, a word, please," Oppie said, lounging back on the edge of his desk.

He quirked his head to the side like Coop himself commonly did. It was odd, watching Oppenheimer work. Like staring into a fun-house mirror. He was thin and lanky, dark hair, awkward movements, but there was a difference, a significant distortion between leader and underling. Coop had finally put a finger on it four months into his stint under Oppenheimer: posture. Oppie swaggered with the upright spine of someone who had been raised with manners and money. Coop, for all his genius, loped with a diffidence brought on by years of stooping just to stay out of the way of physically intimidating peers. Oppie was everything to everybody; pragmatic but never sycophantic, energetic but serious. Coop never thought himself capable of harboring so many emotions at once; he was pixie-like in that degree. He preferred the black and white to the grey. The grey was so messy, so unnecessarily complex. But the older he got, the greyer he became.

"Good man, Coop."

"Thank you."

"You've been very helpful at this conference, you know."

"I figured I'd be out of here much sooner if I wasn't."

"Not quite," Oppie brushed his pinky finger over the ash at the end of his cigarette. Coop had seen that finger before. It was hard, rough and blistered. But he supposed his erratic bossman couldn't feel it. His nerves, much like the nerve endings in his fingers, were shot. "How would you feel about a special project?" he asked, tossing chalk into the air nonchalantly.

"Depends on the project. Fifth dimension representation via mathematic principles would find me as delighted as a kitten in a teacup. On the other hand, playing caddie to the rest of the conferences' bowling shoes would send me into a catatonic state. The men may be smart but they, and you, sir, are not the most hygienic when left to your own devices for three months."

"I've come to expect greater social adroitness on your end, and, I say this with all respect, for you are one of the few men who can… You prove me wrong every time," Oppie said.

"I'm not sure how to take that."

"Take it as you will, as long as you take the position I offer."

"Which is?"

"Head of design for the fission gun."

"What?" Coop asked, brows knitting together tighter than the stitches on his MeeMaw's quilt. "I already told you, I'm not an engineer. My expertise is in theory. In _theory_, this will work. But I'm not the man to approach concerning testing."

"Well, find someone who is."

"Sir?"

"Please don't call me that, it ages me decades," Oppie said. "It's your idea, and I want to give credit where it's due. Don't you want your name on this?"

Coop opened his mouth to answer. The quick verbal parries that usually came so second nature to him died on the strings of his vocal chords, choked in his negation.

"I… I don't know if I do," Coop answered quietly.

"Which is exactly why _you_ need to be in charge of this project," Oppie said. "There are men in there who are too cautious. Others much too aggressive. I need a man who can get the job done, but who takes no pleasure in knowing the implications of success. Can you be that man?"

"I don't think I can."

"Think harder."

And so he did. Right there, in the smokey room at LeConte Hall, one big blackboard and one quizzical genius staring down at him.

"It's not even that I think I can. I _know _I can," Coop said.

"But?"

"But I don't know if I _want_ to."

"And there we have the rub." Oppie rose from behind his desk and went to face Coop. "Find someone, anyone you want, to work with you on small scale applications. Get me the numbers, the procedure, and we'll scale it up to fit the U-235. Unlimited budget. There is no room for error in design, no room for miscalculation in the math. And even less room for levity in its implementation. This is very much life or death we are speaking of."

"And your inconstant emotions, joking one moment, anger the next, push us further into the melodramatic," Coop accused. He'd been wanting to tell the odd little man as much for months now.

Oppie looked back at him, expression softening into a settled, heavy countenance Coop had not seen before. "Surely you know by now, Dr. Cooper." He withdrew another cigarette from an embossed silver case, tamped it down thrice, and slipped a slim white line from the pack. "If we did not hide behind something, humor, melodrama, anger…" he lit the cigarette and puffed a ringed smoke cloud into the younger physicist's face, then jostled the now empty glass, toothpick _pinging_ against its sides. "… we would all pitch ourselves off of the stadium."

* * *

The summer at Berkeley had not been what Coop expected; he knew why he was there. He knew what their objective was. However, the back-and-forth, the infernal turn-taking, listening and collaborating only to scrap the whole project, start again, toil, and scrap once more, was no more fulfilling than the second to last issue of _Action Comics_. It was underwhelming at best, a dismal attempt at patriotic propaganda at worst. Just who was this Captain America character supposed to be? Comic book woes aside, Coop had finally done something that warranted independent study. Collaboration was required at this level of expertise, or else one would stagnate in his or her ideas. Coop recognized this, but he didn't have to like it. So having an assignment, one that he could work on solo, with minimal applied collaboration… collaboration that _he_ could control…

Coop's head snapped up as he walked back to his Berkeley apartment. He was told to find someone with whom he could work, someone skilled in the application of theoretic principles, someone who could design and test the principles with him. Coop resolved to write Leo as soon as he put the key in the lock.

He twisted and pulled his arms out of his constricting jacket; the temperature in his flat was approximately ten degrees warmer than the exterior air. It didn't help that he resided in a stuffy one bedroom, the bare minimum the government would shell out for the scientists responsible for ending the worst targeted massacre humanity had seen in centuries. Three floors up, he opened the window in his bedroom. It was not near the fire escape, so no intruders were likely to infiltrate his domestic sphere. He was never safe from those flying menaces, the songbirds, so he would be forced to leave just a slit open into the nighttime. For now though, he redirected his attention to his desk, a plump envelope with his biweekly letter from Amelia carefully placed in the lower corner.

He had come to appreciate her handwriting, determined curves tilted with strength, nothing hurried or blotted in the text of the paragraphs. She was succinct in relaying information but gave enough detail on the subjects she knew he would appreciate. He was confused, however, by the relative bulk of this letter. He had just seen her the previous weekend; she wasn't working on a particularly harrowing story, nor was his own work involved enough for him to openly discuss it with her. They had experienced no vexing personal matters since Amelia's run-in with Duncan Mabry.

Yes. Coop had done a bit of digging, finding out the scum-of-the-earth's surname. Amelia wasn't the only one skilled at finding information. He didn't consider himself a particularly vengeful person, but should the man lapse into a repeat offense, he might not hesitate to group Leo and Howie together and pay the man a visit. What he would do when he got there, he did not know. But having the name made him feel all the better.

He poured himself a glass of water from the tap and sat at his desk. There were other letters, correspondence from CalTech concerning his return, a bill from a grocer around the corner. He reviewed them quickly, pasting stamps and signatures with healthy flourishes as he tore into Amelia's letter. Having forgone a letter opener, he was rewarded with a nasty paper cut on his index finger. He stuck the stinging digit into his mouth and sucked, mentally chastising himself for not having a properly stocked first aid kit in the apartment. He'd used the last of his flimsy bandages the previous week, attempting to plug a leaky patch over his washroom sink. The scientist indeed lived the life of luxury.

The pain lessened when he saw the familiar script and letterhead of Amelia's stationary. Had he been a sentimental man, he would have found the letter comforting.

_Coop,_

_ I apologize, in advance, for I know that you may be perplexed with the lengthy missive to follow. Your only consolation is knowing that I had no other person to which I could relay the following events. Penelope and Bernadette are dear companions, but I frequently struggle with their helpful but occasionally hollow advice. I'll admit upfront that I'm seeking a bit of sympathy, which may be in short supply as I know you've been frustrated professionally as well. I will do my best to keep all relevant details short and exclude anything extraneous, but there is a bit of background required that I feel you are obliged to understand before I continue with my story. _

_ As you know (and per your suggestion, I might add), I've been moved to the weekly news broadcast as an EP with Jim. I don't believe you've met him; he's an amiable sort of fellow, agreeable in the way diplomats are, and one of our greatest assets in terms of listener retention. However, he is not, in any way, shape, or form, a scientist. I do not fault him for that; one must work with the gifts one is given. In that regard, Jim, being the type of person so well-known and admired by the general public, is allotted x number of days for leave. He took those days, as he was right to do, to bid farewell to his eldest son, who had just been commissioned as an officer within the air force. He will be battling the Luftwaffe within the fortnight._

_ Due to his absence, I have been forced to fill in during the main news hour much to Big Bill's chagrin. I mentioned this briefly in my last letter, for I thought it would come to naught. But, as such little situations tend never to tilt in my favor, I'll resort to your Texan slang: "Boy howdy was I wrong!". During my time as anchor, there have been both complaints and praise, old listeners leaving but new listeners tuning in. Our numbers have dipped and risen, but apparently I appeal to a different audience than the one our sponsors are so inclined to sway. Needless to say, Bill is on his last cigar; I'm afraid I'm about to be the one to get smoked._

_ Pardon me as I wax philosophic. But do you not think, when given an avenue to inform, to challenge, to relay the truth, one is not only called, but _charged_ to do so? Many listeners know that I am female; that I'm Jewish. But inheritance is unintentional. I know now, despite my capabilities, that I was chosen to fill in as anchor only because of my experience, but as a place-holder nonetheless. I'm the only one in the station with any on-air experience. Other anchors have either been called up, volunteered, or have moved on to greener pastures. The need for communication technicians in this war is staggering (more to come on that later). I don't feel however, that I should have to fight for the little space that I occupy. One should not feel they must justify their very existence. I was not made, biologically or otherwise, to emit. I was made to absorb, to take in, and then to _re_produce copies, not produce originals. Why can I not make something novel? When right and left people are charged to matter, to care, to make a difference; because a difference isn't something that happens… it is _made_._

_Yet here I am, in a profession that only regurgitates information. It is a helpful regurgitation, do not misunderstand me. But I feel that journalism can be more than it currently is. Sensationalism is the rule of thumb, and I, unfortunately, can't get out from under that crushing digit that belongs to Big Bill Banks. My stint as anchor, therefore, can only be termed controversial due to my reporting style and opinions. I desperately need to be back in the lab, marveling over empirical quandaries; philosophy does nothing but agitate._

_ Ideology aside, the one ally I retain in the newsroom comes in the form of Dennis Banks. I believe you two have met. He's a bright youth, only just now eighteen with a quick mind and a rogue tongue. He teases me constantly (all in jest, I assure you) and we work well together. The shortage of experience at the station found myself and Dennis working alongside each other throughout the week. We were always close, but never worked closely, until such a time as there was no other choice but to throw us together for the sake of productivity. Big Bill resents this partnership, for he fears that I am putting outrageously progressive ideas into his nephew's head, brain-washing him because I know so much about the brain. I could, technically, do this, but I have too much respect for Dennis to put him through such. Not to mention, it would be unethical. _

_What does that say about me when I think of ethics as an endnote, and not a contributing factor? I'll let you be the judge. _

_ During the Friday broadcast, Dennis was mysteriously cheerful, claiming he had great news and that he could not wait to share it with me. He wanted to get through the broadcast, and then escort me to a late lunch to celebrate. Have no fear, Cooper. I think of him as nothing more than a dear younger brother; not to mention the perverted violation I would be perpetuating if I were to "rob the cradle". At the end of the broadcast, Dennis played a horrible trick on me. It was not really all that bad, but had he possessed the knowledge of his uncle's unfounded prejudice against my person, he might have rethought his course of action. At the end of the week, the news broadcaster takes calls from listeners. Usually only one or two, as many of our listeners cannot yet afford telephones. Those who can are particularly snooty. Jim had the deftness and linguistic expertise to argue gently, reprimand only slightly, and cajole while also informing. _

_You know me. I have never been so skilled at socializing, and my opinions are blunt. I got into an argument about genealogical imperialism on the air with this caller whom Dennis had selected. Dennis and I had previously discussed the topic, as he had many questions about the war. He was fascinated, and wanted to know more. I can only chock his caller selection up to that deep conversation we had only two days prior. _

_ Bill did not think this was good journalism. Had I not been the most senior member on staff, he might have thought it was grounds for dismissal. Dennis jumped to my aid as I was being verbally berated within full view of the newsroom. Bill retaliated brutishly, socking Dennis in the jaw and bellowing like an enraged beast all the while. Dennis, poor soul, took it like a man. He told his uncle point-blank that he would not be treated with so little respect in front of his peers. He took full responsibility, saying that he was the one who put the caller through, and that if his uncle didn't have the decency (he used a colorful term in place of that word, referencing male genitalia) to blame the right person, then he didn't know why he'd been put in charge of the station in the first place. _

_He announced with equal parts pride and naïveté that he had been drafted, and would be shipping out to basic the following week. He had spoken with a recruiting officer, and was informed that he would be shuffled into the large crowd of boys undergoing training with communicative army technologies: radar, am and fm wave transmission, and some innovation he referred to as a walkie-talkie. I extracted these bits of information after I made a hasty exit from the newsroom at the conclusion of my shift. Dennis had waited for me after he stormed out, and our lunch was much less celebratory than he had originally intended. His worry was so true and innocent, I couldn't help but voice my own concerns for his safety. He shrugged it off like the All-American boy that he is, instead asking about my welfare under his tyrannous uncle. I reassured him that I was fully capable of handling myself, and promised to write to him. _

_He said that, like me, he wanted to make a difference. He asked, quite wisely I might add, what difference he could make within an establishment as rigid as the one his uncle oversaw. Sometimes internal change can only come from an external force, and I was inclined to agree with him. I returned to the station after our brief lunch, and noted Big Bill's stare the entire time. Not only had I turned his nephew against him, but I had openly supported the boy's insubordination in front of the entire newsroom._

_ The long and short of it, I suppose, is that I have lost my only true ally and further aggravated my greatest enemy. War does strange things to people, Coop. I have become so dependent upon socialization that I find myself pouring emotional analysis I would previously have glossed over into this letter, hoping for your guidance in the matter. I know, as well as you do, the irony of that desire. _

_Perhaps the real long and short of it is that I miss you. And because I am not fulfilled professionally, I have far too much time to ponder your absence. Please do not judge me too harshly for my sentimentality. As I stated previously, war does strange things to people._

_ Fondly,_

_ Amelia_

Coop's eyes were heavy and his brain was sluggish. Amelia had not blatantly asked for advice, because she knew as well as he did that he could provide none. Comfort, she had requested. Though that was as difficult as advice for Coop in many respects. And she missed him. When only just over a year ago, they didn't even know each other. And now she had formed an attachment so strong that his physical absence caused her distress? Curious. He was inclined to blame it on the 'boyfriend' label. It was only socially appropriate for her to miss him.

He withdrew pen and paper, and set about to composing a reply. He would not ramble on as she did; the details and background given painted an accurate picture of her situation, but the bit in the middle about personal justifications had him wondering about his own decisions. He did not often think on such matters, as there was calculus to be done, sums to be figured, but the more they talked of bombs and fire, the more he found himself questioning his participation at Berkeley.

His writing was rushed and slapdash. In the letter, he apologized for his brevity but reassured her of his upcoming return to Pasadena, saying he would be able to provide advice or comfort or escapism in the form of an outing to the picture show. He preferred the third suggestion.

After sealing the letter and setting it aside, he tried to wake up a bit, starting on another letter addressed to Leo. He skipped his usual niceties and apartment queries and went straight to his request: would Leo be willing to partner with him for the gun-type fission project? He couldn't come right out and say it, but the two had corresponded enough that Coop felt Leo would understand the question.

The next morning when he sent it, he felt immensely better. He was returning to Pasadena in four days, and would be able to see Amelia. Maybe geographical features would stop taking her body shape and he would be able to concentrate again. He did not miss her like she did him, though. It was basic distraction, not affection, he thought stubbornly.

He would likewise be able to discuss the partnership with Leo. Working alongside his best buddy would ease his nerves about the repercussions of Project Y, and would bring the joy back into equations he had missed during the last few weeks at Berkeley. He was happy, almost giddy, the Thursday before his train left for Pasadena. All would right itself when he could get back home, back to his comfort zone that he was mad to leave in the first place. At the end of the workday, a youth came in and handed Coop a telegram. It was from Leo:

_Know you're coming home tomorrow STOP. I have to refuse your offer STOP. I've decided to join the military STOP. Will discuss when you return. STOP._

_ -Leo_

It was all Coop could do not to catch the night train and travel until morning, chain his roommate to the wall and force him to remain in California. Instead, he went to his shabby apartment, made a cup of tea, and stared at the ceiling until dawn.

* * *

_**Not entirely happy with this structurally, as this had started out as two chapters. Then you go away from your home, have a Walden-esque experience, and end up feeling guilty for not updating in a while because of no Internet. Sorry all :/**_

_**I think it was in a parody piece from this fandom that said something like, 'the cliffs, they must hang!' So this is the cliffhanger. Reviews, critique and speculation always appreciated. More to come. **_


	15. Mining for Gold

_**Warnings: LONG chapter and hastily posting leaves room for grammar mistakes. Additionally, I don't own it. The Big Bang Theory belongs to CBS, Lorre, Prady, Molaro and the likes. Enjoy!  
**_

* * *

Say what you will about Coop, but he was certain no one would ever find him under-researched or illogical. He always, _always_, came prepared to an argument. Strictly speaking, it was rather one-sided: his eidetic memory was encyclopedic, years of arithmetic sculpted argumentative structure, and, though not especially flowery, he possessed a surprising eloquence and enough folksy slang to be almost convincing in his persuasion.

Unless the opposing argument was founded in something that shirked reason, like duty, or honor, or morality. It was even _more_ difficult when people used plain sense against him, but then peppered their argumentation with emotional appeals; they had the luxury of both sides, tugging at heartstrings and brain cells alike, while he remained in the stark atmosphere of the cerebral. It was just like Leo, to revert to emotional whims when he realized he was being out-argued. And he was out-argued 83% of the time. The remaining 17%, however, usually involved some sort of emotional factor, which Coop could never adequately counter. They were closing in on the third hour of their argument. It would have been closer to five if Leo had let him finish his presentation.

"Coop, I know you're scared—"

"What? Me, scared? I think you're confusing our positions. It is _you _who should be scared," Coop stated.

"I am scared," Leo said, glancing back toward his book. His glasses inched down his nose.

"Well there you go!" Coop said, gesturing as if that statement were the answer to every question ever posed by humanity.

"Just because I'm scared, it doesn't mean I shouldn't be brave."

Coop snorted. "Bravery is overrated."

"As are pomp, indignation, and condescension, but that didn't stop you from making me feel bad about a selfless decision."

"You're just going to up and leave me here? Saddled with the apartment, all the cleaning duties for Lord knows how long, not to mention that noise both of us are unwilling to investigate coming from that back corner."

Both men eyed the corner and shuddered.

"Only you could make me sound self-centered through volunteer work," Leo snipped.

"Back to my previous point, this _is_ self-centered. You're no me, but you're no Joe-schmoe either, Leo. There are industries on their hands and knees begging for scientists; smart, trained men who aren't inclined to ship themselves to Europe at the drop of a hat."

"This hasn't come about at the drop of a hat. I've been thinking about this all summer, _you_ just haven't been here."

"So now it's my fault?!"

"It's no one's fault, Coop," Leo said, exasperated. "This is not a situation where you blame someone."

"I blame Penelope."

"Penelope? What did she ever do to you?" Leo asked.

"I don't know. But I'm sure it's her fault. You make all sorts of decisions willy-nilly when she's involved," Coop said.

"Believe it or not, we've been arguing about as long as Penelope and I did when I first told her."

"If my and Penelope's agreeing on something isn't a sign, then I don't know what is," Coop continued. He slumped down at the end of the sofa, defeated,; the train ride, manic pacing, and worry leeched the energy from his body.

Leo plopped his feet down from his curled position on the chair and leaned over his knees, his thumb tucked snugly into the page to mark his book. Leaning forward like that, hands on his legs and a perceptive expression on his face, Leo took on the persona of Coop's Pa Paw. All Leo needed to do was clap him over the back and call him Sport, deliver an inexplicable life lesson and then move on to mending fences… literally. Coop's grandfather had owned a ranch.

"I'm not joining artillery or footmen of any kind, Coop. There are industries over here that need scientists, sure, but they also need them over there. Howard spends days building tanks and weapons and more, but who do you think puts it all together once it gets to where it's supposed to go? Who do you think double-checks the shelling artillery, the gunnery equipment on the planes? Who do you think operates the radar and signs off on the weaponry in the subs? They've got mechanics, sure, but they need more people who can think on their feet. Who know enough about the principles of mechanics, engineering, and physics to replace or rewire or reconstruct things that need fixing. Do you see where I'm coming from?"

"No."

Leo rubbed at his temples with his right hand, scrunching the skin and pulling his eyebrows in aggravation.

"I've got a specific skill set. Isn't it logical for me to put those skills to use where I can do the most good?"

"It's logical for you to put your skills to use. Whether the outcome is 'good' or not is arbitrary."

"But don't you think that if you have the chance to do something good then you should?"

"Amelia said something like that to me," Coop said. He tightened his grip, rolling his fingers over the knuckles of his clasped hands, looking anywhere in the room but at his roommate. Should he show the slightest crack in resolve, Leo would not hesitate to pounce. Perhaps he'd make a fair soldier, after all. "But who decides whether this is good or not? Who gets to make that call?" Coop tried.

"You've already argued about societal perceptions and indoctrination. I'm not doing this because I feel particularly patriotic. I'm _definitely _not doing this to take on some illusion of heroism. I'm not a fighter. I've had enough black eyes and steaks on my face to know that."

Coop flinched at the thought.

"But I can help. In my own small way, that I've resolved within myself, I can help. And you know what, Coop? You'll never get it. Because it's a feeling. It's something you just _know_. And in the end, you'll come out better for the knowing. Penelope is sad, but she won't say she is. She shrugs, tells me she's proud of me. And a small part of me thinks she is. But a bigger part of me knows she's scared. I'm scared, too, but I'm not letting that stop me. I guess it comes down to that sense of responsibility, something like a… call of duty, if you want to say it another way. I'm going to help, and I promise to do my best when I get over there."

He wanted to do his best… Coop mulled over the phrase while Leo went back to his book.

When Coop was six, his father had taken him out to a paddock with an aged Winchester rifle and taught him to shoot. It was the only lesson he took away from the man. He'd spent the entire afternoon, figuring trajectory and velocity, angle, elevation, compensating for terrain and windage, the _pop_, _pop_, _pop_ ringing in his eardrums. Midway through the lesson he'd cottoned on: Coop could see light shining through the holes on the empty jugs his father had set up as targets. Also, midway through the lesson, his father had uncorked one of his home brews and set to drinking himself into a stupor. _Pop_, _pop_, _pop_. He'd left his father lying in the grass, snoring, and began making his way back to the large ranch house. On the trail, he'd met his Pa Paw, hovering over a red cow in a ditch. Coop knew they'd been driving the heifers down from the north fields.

"What's wrong with it?" Coop asked.

"This 'ere cows got a bum leg, Sport," Pa Paw replied.

"Can we fix it?"

"'m afraid not."

"So what can we do? We can't just leave it out here."

"No, we can't."

He remembered the way his grandfather had eyed the rifle in his hands. He'd looked so sad. Large and bulky, the gun had left a purple welt on his shoulder that he had nursed for days afterward. In that moment, with the big red cow on the ground and that pitying look in his grandfather's eyes, he lost a large portion of his innocence.

"Coop, sit down here for a piece," he said. They sat at the animal's head. Coop had touched it, had rubbed the mud off of its snout, the sheen over its eyes so glassy it could've been in his marble set. The wet creases at its eyes resembled a wince. "You know we run these cattle up to market every season, right?"

"Yes sir," Coop said.

"You know what happens at market?"

"We sell the cows."

"And what happens then?"

"Somebody else takes them. They kill them so we can eat them."

"You always were the smartest boy I 'ere did see," Pa Paw told him.

Coop could do nothing but stroke the dirt-matted fur and nod. He washed four times when he got back to the house.

"She's hurt real bad, Coop. She'll not make it back, and it would only be making her hurt worse if we tried to move her to the barn, or the next field over. Even if she heals up, she'll walk cripple. She'll fall, maybe hurt herself 'gain. So I need to take that from you."

Coop didn't let go of the rifle right away. His fingers latched on to the barrel, the hammer so heavy and angry he'd barely been able to pull it back. He just stared at the cow as tears started to leak.

"I don't take any pleasure in this, Sport," his Pa Paw had grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him from the animal. The cow released a low, guttural noise, something between a moan and a moo. Coop wretched. "I'm not the best man on these fields, but I ain't the worst. Ever' time I leave your Mee Maw at the door, I promise to do my best when I get out here, and that's all there is to it."

Somewhere along the way, his Pa Paw had left him walking back to his home unattended. Coop heard a bellow and two short _pop—pops_; he didn't eat his dinner that night.

The flick of a page on Leo's book brought him back to his sitting room. Coop chanced a glance at him, discovering his book was not in fact a science text, but a manual. A _military_ manual.

Sometimes _doing your best_ isn't good enough. He wanted to say that even if Leo did his best, he'd probably kill. There were loads of other men out there, doing _their _level bests, and they were working for the other side. They'd probably kill him.

Coop pushed off from his spot on the sofa and grabbed his jacket. He didn't even bother putting his watch in his pocket.

"Where are you going?"

"Out."

"Coop, come on."

"You've already dealt with this," Coop said, surveying his relaxed roommate. "… apparently. Please give me the chance to do the same."

"Buddy, it's not gonna do any—"

The abrupt slam of the door killed the rest of Leo's sentence.

* * *

"What can I do you for, bud?"

"Alcohol."

"I'm going to need you to be a little more specific."

"Potent alcohol."

"I think I know just the trick."

Somewhere between the third and fourth tricks, Coop started having trouble finding the lip of his glass. Somewhere between the fifth and sixth, he lost his straw. And somewhere around the seventh, he stopped counting.

His mind never felt so foggy; his head so heavy. He rubbed his eyes, and all he could see was Leo's squarish face, and then Penelope's, clearer, but much too close for comfort.

"Coop?"

"Huh?"

"Coop, what the hell?!"

"Ow," he said, rubbing his head.

"What are you doing here?" Penelope asked.

"Uhh— ehm… I'm not, where… where am I?"

"God, Coop," Penelope said, snatching the short glass tumbler out of his reach. More liquid, cool and bland ran down his esophagus. He stared at the thing in his hand. Where did he get this cup?

Penelope was definitely here. Though where 'here' was, Coop could not figure.

"Pen— Penel… Penny," Coop tried, focusing all of his efforts on seeing just one of his blonde friend. "Penelope. I went, I was just— I wanted…" Coop felt his head sway. "Leo said he's joining the Army." There was a bit of pain radiating from his elbow. He came down heavily on the bar top, chin resting on his upturned palm as he fiddled with the water glass in the other.

Through the smoke in the mirrored hall of the mahogany bar, over the cacophony of lewd, drunken comments and dazed, suspended stares, he heard a familiar refrain: "Oh sweetie."

"Why would he…"

"Coop, I'm going to call Leo to come get you."

"No!" he said, nearly lurching over the bar. "Don't. I'm mad and… he's just not. I'm not here because he's a good friend, Penelope. I'm here 'cause he doesn't care anymore."

"Of course he cares. He cares more than you know," Penelope said.

There was a shout from somewhere down the bar, and Penelope disappeared momentarily. Glancing the bottle display, he saw his distorted reflection in amber liquids, his bulbous head glaring back at him in the dim, jaundiced light of the bar attached to the club where Penelope worked nights. The place had tarnish and must build-up, the unmistakable signs of overlooked details and aged neglect. Coop felt he might one day fall into that category. He continued sipping at his water, his throat ticklish and itchy.

Penelope was back before Coop could reorganize his thoughts.

"Look, Coop, I'd love to talk about this, really, I would. When Leo told me I drank myself to sleep."

"Oh Lord," Coop huffed. "Now I'm no better than you."

"You get one freebie, buster, because you're three sheets to wind. But I can't babysit you, and you can't stay here. I'm on shift, and the manager keeps eyeing me."

"So I'm at Eden?"

"Yes. Where did you think you were?" Penelope asked.

"Tartarus."

"Where?"

He rubbed his eyes again with the pads of his index fingers. The underside of his lids was as scratchy as his throat.

"Never mind. The irony is lost on you."

"Hold on." Another disappearance, and then Penelope materialized at his side, an arm on his shoulder to steady him. "Thank god you can walk," she said. "To think I'm wasting my only break of the night on you. And I just got here."

"Don't call Leo."

"I'm not."

"Then why are we going to the telephone booth?"

The blonde cornhusker shoved him unceremoniously into the tight space and squeezed in behind. She shut the door and lifted the earpiece from the receiver.

"Yes, can you connect me to the KRVT extension, Pasadena, please?"

Coop felt whatever blood was still left in his face drain to his ankles. Which was silly; his extremities had superb circulation.

"Amelia? Hey, Penelope. I know it's late and you're finishing your story about the king… Admiral, Navy, King, I don't care… Listen, Coop's down at the club and he's wasted… Yes, that means drunk… Inebri—what?... Right, Club Eden, you've been here, remember? I'm on the night rotation… You've got to come get him, I've only got a break for a few minutes… We're in the front bar area, not the club in the back… Oh, thank you! Yes, right… See you in a few minutes."

Coop registered a clunk, and then he was being ousted from the seat in the booth with such force he'd have thought Penelope was the one going to basic training.

Back at the bar, and he was deposited on a stool like a four-year-old in time out.

"Sit and wait for Amelia," Penelope directed. "And don't drink anything else! I've got to get back to work."

Had he been able to coherently form a sentence, he would have raised a hand toward the other barkeep and ordered just to spite her.

His mind started in on its ruminations, muddled and pressurized. He could do nothing more than squirm to keep his seat, his physical control lessening with every second that passed. He stood, without aid, and glanced toward the restroom. He was not one to relieve himself in such an establishment, but exceptions must be made. After he'd taken care of business, he threw cold water on his face, wet drops clinging to his hair and stinging his skin. Leo was leaving, and there wasn't anything he could do.

He could join with him.

_No_.

Logically, there was no guarantee he would be put in the same unit, in the same post. They were similar, but they were not suited to the same jobs. And what would he do if he did go? Protect Leo? He'd listened as Leo recounted his black eyes; he'd had just as many. But Leo was going to do some good. He could do good too, couldn't he?

He shut the running water off.

Did he even want to? Since when had he started worrying about whether he was a good person? Was it when he left Pasadena? Or when he realized he controlled whether people lived or died with a properly figured equation? Was it when he met… her? He had thought, surrounding himself with such good people, that their goodness might eclipse his own. That they would make up for his deficit. But, try as he might, his friends, his roommate… the woman with the low voice, horn-rimmed glasses and tragically beautiful mind made him better, if not wholly good.

His reflected face shook its head. Coop wanted to stop thinking; to reestablish a sense of equilibrium in his grey matter.

Grey matter. Brains. Amelia was coming to get him. Was her favorite color grey because brains were composed of grey matter?

He stumbled out from the men's room and back to his empty seat. Penelope's blonde ponytail was whipping back and forth like a flag in the wind. When she locked eyes on him again, she glared, like the slitted eyes of the villains in his comic books. Her eyes left him and her face softened seconds later. She turned back to her customers with nary a word.

"Coop."

Cooper turned around to find Amelia standing behind the barstool. She did not seem angry, or frustrated, or bothered. He could not read her face.

"Come on, it's time to go."

Coop nodded and stood, grabbing clumsily for her hand as they exited the bar. He saw Amelia wave over her shoulder at Penelope and the blonde winked, some feminine language he was not privy to. The door shut and his ears popped. It was so quiet he could hear his pulse in his head.

"I don't want to go home."

"Where do you propose I take you?" Amelia asked.

"I can't go back to the apartment. Leo's there."

"Well, he is your roommate. That's to be expected."

"I'm mad at him."

"Is that why you were at the bar? Because you were mad at Leo?"

"Yes."

"What did he do?"

"He's joining the Army."

"I know."

Coop looked up at her, outline blurry in the light of the streetlamp.

"Then why did you ask me?"

"The more you verbalize it, the more you'll come to terms with it," she replied.

"Brain monkey."

"Drunkard."

Coop dug the toe of his shoe into a crack in the concrete. "That was a low blow."

Amelia sighed. "You can sleep on my couch. But you're going to talk to Leo tomorrow. Whether you want to or not."

After that command, Coop gave himself over to his stupor. It wasn't until he saw stairs in front of his feet that he bothered to question Amelia's direction.

"You owe me four dollars for the cab," she said.

Coop stopped and held a hand out, bracing himself against the wall of the stairwell. Climbing, up and forward, he scratched at the paneling of the walls but found no traction. He swayed, prepping himself to fall flat on his face, hard ground slamming into bone.

But he didn't fall. There was the initial knocking, the jolt, and then something far more pliable than a dusty wooden stair. Squashy and plush, he remained upright. He swung his head right and left, cast his eyes up the stairwell, and then down to his right side. He found the tender support.

Amelia had folded herself under his right armpit, his arm so long it dangled off the opposite side of her shoulder. Her arm circled his waist. He was confounded by the feel of her fingers on his left hipbone.

"If you fall and take me down with you, you'll have a hospital bill on top of the cab ride. Keep that in mind."

They made the tedious journey up to the third floor of her apartment building. He would squeeze the top of her right shoulder every fourth step or so, to remind himself of how squishy and _female_ she seemed. How had he never noticed this malleability before? How curvy her deltoids were? He leaned so heavily on her shoulder his nose touched her hair, the frayed ends teasing his nostrils with the day-old scent of vanilla.

"'Melia," he murmured.

"Almost there," she answered.

"No."

No… _what_?

He leaned against the exterior wall, a sort of inverted pushup position. He focused on breathing, inhaling through his nose and out through his mouth. It seemed nearly as difficult as stabilizing fission properties. He pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand and heard the tinkle of Amelia's keys. She took his arm and pulled, but he resisted, thumping his body into the doorjamb. Amelia guided him out of the way and shut the door behind him.

"Coop, what's—"

"m' sorry…" he slurred. "No. I'm being stupid, I can't put you out like this." He made a halfhearted swat at the doorknob.

"Don't be silly," she admonished, tugging at his sleeve again.

"No," he whipped his wrist out of her grasp.

"Now you're just being childish."

"Am not!"

"Cooper, I don't have time for this. I'm tired, and it looks like I'm going to be playing doctor in the morning. Now get in here!"

Coop had it in his mind to leave, and was pivoting on his heel as Amelia jerked his shirtsleeve. He careened off-balance and straight into her unsuspecting embrace. Coop heard a thud about his knees and was aware, regardless of his inebriated state that he had somehow managed to get himself horizontal onto Amelia's sofa. One part of his brain was thinking how clever he was to know to lie down, that the best cure for alcohol ingestion was time, hydration and sleep. The other part, however, had bonked foreheads with the individual he was currently crushing under the weight of his torso. Not a substantial weight by any means, but definitely heavy enough to impede respiration.

"Herumph! Coop!"

"Sorry, sorry!" he swung about, relieving her of his weight by shifting to his elbows and knees. He could now examine her head, as it was his fault that they had collided. His palms cupped the sides of her cheeks, like a pair of parentheses around the most important phrase in his doctoral dissertation. He tilted her head down to her chest and studied the juncture of her hairline and the smooth skin of her face.

"I don't think you'll have a knot," Coop said shakily. He must have rammed into her, the couch arm taking her legs out from under her, and she, not willing to go down without a fight, had dragged him along with her. Serves her right for pulling him with such recklessness.

"We might need ice, to combat swelling," he croaked.

It was becoming more difficult to hold himself upright. He knew he could fall on her again. But actually moving? Too much alcohol had metabolized in his bloodstream; why not just ask him to trade places with Atlas?

He regarded her face: eyelids drooping, lips millimeters apart, nostrils flaring with every clipped breath… he could feel the swell of her chest against his own. He had never been more conscious of the fact that he wasn't wearing his usual vest with his suit. Still fully clothed, but there was one less layer between him and her breasts.

He moved his left hand above her on the cushion, the muscles in his triceps tingling from exertion. He watched her as her eyes followed his departing hand, then caught his breath as she swiftly turned back into the caress on her other cheek. He had looked at her before, but had never _seen_ so much so close. He knew, somewhere in the more aware portion of his mind, that the visual was not always visible. Amelia went in and out of focus, beckoning him closer like a microscope slide that needed just the right amount of tweaking and light to dispel the haze around the edges. His eyes crisscrossed as he scrutinized the curve of her ear, the ridge of her nose, the sharp angle of her jaw line. He repositioned himself once more and felt her squirm.

"Amelia," he whispered.

He brought his fingers into her line of sight, and he saw her usually smooth forehead crease together. One, two, three deep wrinkles, with secondary and tertiary lines tunneling crevices in her skin, disappearing over her temporal and zygomatic bones.

He tapped the frames of her glasses. She turned her head to the side to allow him access to their removal, but would not meet his stare again. The frames caught in a tangle of deep brown curls, and he felt her fingers toying alongside his as he attempted to extract the visual aid from her hair. Her other hand, he noticed, had not left his chest since their descent.

Once discarded, he tried to examine her eyes. She had such small eyes that they turned to slots when she smiled. Coop had never minded before. He once thought there was such a balanced space displacement about her features; that as one aspect shrunk, the other grew, and her smile was wide and faultless in a way that made up for the disappearance. But he would likely never be this close again. He was having trouble remembering why he was this close in the first place. Her lashes swooped and all thoughts of _why_ he was here were replaced with the basic enjoyment of being here. In for a penny, in for a pound.

"Look at me."

"What?" she asked, voice low in the quiet.

"I never see your eyes. They're always behind your glasses. Will you look at me, please?"

"I—"

"No. Eyes. Not 'I'."

She finally tilted her head back up to him. In the green, he saw both reluctance and vulnerability.

He felt so very bold, making these requests. Appeals he had never once considered made apparent, and he finally understood the phrase, 'liquid courage'. A needling in his head was telling him to continue, to see how obliging she might be, because he was intrigued by every new discovery. A miner, and under each overturned stone he found a golden nugget waiting for collection: a dimple, an exhale, the feel of her palm on his pectoral muscle, the slight scraping as her nails clutched his cotton shirt was worth at least twenty-four karats of the 79th atomic number.

The other, more dominant thoughts were starting to sound an alarm. An alarm he could finally hear over the whooshing gurgle of alcohol in his system. That alarm was connected with the vulnerability, the hesitancy in her eyes. It made him doubt his captivating expedition, all discoveries worthless if he had inspired the slightest fright within her. He moved over her. He had never considered her so petite until he was lying flush against her body. Was he scaring her?

"I'm… I'm sorry," he stammered suddenly.

He pushed, with all his might, off of his shaking arms and tumbled onto the far side of the couch. He might have crushed her feet in the process, but better her feet than her trust in him.

"I don't know what I was doing— I didn't intend to be so…"

She was on her elbows looking up at him, pink flushing her skin from brow to neckline, the hairs on her forearms at attention like minutemen. He felt the miner in his head reach for his pick-axe once more. He wanted to crack that pink shell and see what was under it.

"Coop, it's alright. You're not well."

"I just…"

She shoved herself forward and pulled her feet out from under him, swinging her stocking-covered legs over the edge of the sofa.

Amelia had had shoes on when she let him into the apartment. Knowing that they came off when he was on top of her made him whimper.

"What's wrong?" Amelia asked.

"Did I startle you? That is, I, uhm… I hope I didn't frighten you…"

He barely felt her hand on his arm.

"My head hurts tremendously," he said.

"That's to be expected. You will not feel well in the morning."

"I didn't mean for this to happen. I don't want _any_ of this to happen," he said. His stomach joined his head in the physical agitation, churning up bile and remorse. "I'm going to lose my best friend."

"You don't know that for sure. He could come back a hero."

"You don't know _that_ for sure," Coop said. He felt something wet on his face, a tear or perspiration.

"I know that Leo loves you like a brother, and that he would protect you like one if he could."

Coop sneered and sniffed. "He puts up with me. I'm his roommate. It's an obligation to him. He signed a lease."

"That he could have gotten out of annually for nearly a decade. He doesn't have to stay with you, but he does. Doesn't that suggest a fondness beyond obligation?"

"Fondness, familial ties, empty placations," he said. "It still doesn't change the fact that he's leaving and he might not come back."

"I think you're being incredibly selfish," she said.

"Me?! He's the one—"

"And you're the one who's only thinking about how his departure will affect you. How do you think Penelope feels, Coop? Don't you know I went through this exact same routine with her? Well…" she trailed off, the pillow at the other end of the couch holding her attention. "Not _exact_."

She rose from the sofa and returned moments later with something in her hand.

"May I?" she asked, holding a clean cloth up for his view.

Coop nodded hesitantly. He felt pressure on his cheeks as she followed the dribbling tear trail down his chin. She stood above him, blotting at his forehead, dressing a psychological wound he was not ready to acknowledge.

He grabbed her wrist and moved her hand to see her face.

"What about you?"

"Me?"

"Will you ever leave?" he asked.

The lack of an immediate dismissal almost had him crying again. Then again, that could have been the dizzying atom bomb going off in his skull.

"I can't promise that," she said.

He dropped her wrist.

"Wait," she said, then knelt down to his level. "I might leave UCLA, or KRVT. I might leave Pasadena and I haven't ruled out leaving California. And if the opportunity is there, I might very well leave the U.S."

"This isn't making me feel any better."

"But I will never leave you. If my travel budget exceeds my food expenditures, it'll be worth it. You don't always show it, but you're one of the most caring men I know. You're also brilliant, and your mind excites me. Anyone I meet after you would be dull as wood. Second best."

"But you'll go?"

"I have no plans to, currently. But I can't pretend that I'm professionally fulfilled right now. You've left me, remember? And we're making it work alright."

"That's different."

"How so?"

"Because you're stronger than I am," his hand found the side of her head again. It was as if her confession of a possible departure had scared him into a physical attachment. He rubbed his thumb against her temple and tried not to let his tear ducts leak. "I can leave you and you'd fare fine. But if you left me… no one's ever given me the kind of chance you have," he whispered, and brought her face to his.

His aim was poor, but he course-corrected. Amelia's lips went from rigid surprise to pliant submission as he leaned into her, his hand on her face moving to the back of her head. Coop sat on the couch above her so he tilted her back for better leverage, his free hand moving down the thoracic vertebrae to support her in his hold.

He had never felt so dependent… and it terrified him. He had not seen her in two weeks, and yet she could turn him to putty with a wink. Even without the alcohol, he was helpless. Outrageously less likely to admit it, but helpless nonetheless. Didn't he just say he hadn't missed her? Didn't he just reaffirm his quest for science, to drag Leo into a paradigm-changing project so she would stop popping up all over the California landscape?

Something burned in his gut that had nothing to do with alcohol when she twisted under his kiss and came back again. It was like the miner had found a raging lion, and he was riding the beast into the battle for exploration. What he found this time outdid all previous discoveries: like the purr she made when his bottom teeth dragged her upper lip; the striking heat of pink gums and swollen flesh; the barest swipe of tongues when he felt he would burst from restraint; the way she moaned his name at every break. And then the advantage turned: her upward surge, with her hands on his collar, and the friction of her fingers over barely-there five o'clock shadow. An encouraging pressure toward his palm, to his terror and glee, when one of his stray fingers raked along the side of her breast. Her devious tongue, slicing the seam of his lip with the precision of a scalpel to spiral around his own.

And then, the abject despondency when she pulled away.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"That's my line."

This was nothing like the surprise peck she'd given him the morning he left for Berkeley. There it had been all embarrassed glances and a shy, instantaneous smack. He'd reproved, not instigated. That kiss had been a quick goodbye, enamored caution. It had said, "So long. See you soon, buddy." This kiss… it was the kind of passion and yearning he thought he was immune to, the kind that stirred base cravings and catalyzed twitches in his trouser region. Its voice was husky, and it purred, suggestively, "Welcome to the rest of your life. If you'll have me, I'm yours for the taking."

"No… I shouldn't of… you're drunk," Amelia continued, snapping Coop back to her apartment couch.

"Not as drunk as I was earlier."

"It doesn't matter. I got so carried away. Tonight… on the couch… I— oh, you're going to hate me in the morning."

Coop was displeased when she covered her face with her hand. Her face, especially after he had kissed her, was perfect. Like magnetic waves and subatomic vibrations and biological equilibrium and excellence.

"I could only hate you if you blew out the candles on my birthday cake," Coop teased. "And then, only briefly. On the other hand, I can hate myself all I want. Case and point: I hate to ask you, but I'm going to need to use your washroom. I feel very much like I am about to vomit."

Amelia giggled, resigned. "Is this going to be our pattern?"

"What?" he asked.

"Both of us drunkenly kissing each other and then heaving up our regrets."

"I'll never regret kissing you tonight," he said. "I have regrets, chief of which is that I won't remember much of this. Secondly…" he saw that a tear from his face had migrated to her cheek. He was still unrestrained in his actions, and dared to brush it away with a finger. "I regret that I was not clear-headed to fully appreciate it."

He shuffled toward her bathroom door, stopping at the entrance.

"I regret I don't have the courage to kiss you like I want to when I'm sober." Coop looked at the floor, and gestured with a thumb toward the toilet. "I'm very sorry about this."

"Go on. They'll be linens on the sofa when you're out," she said.

And when he emerged, she had made up the couch as best she could have, with aspirin and water waiting for him on the coffee table. He took two and chugged the water, falling asleep almost instantly.

The next morning, his head throbbed but his stomach was not churning. Expelling its contents had been wise. His memories were fuzzy, like the earliest films he had seen as a child. He retained the basic narrative, but details were either garbled or hidden away in his subconscious. He was shocked by his lack of awareness. But Amelia was standing calmly in her kitchen, which was reassuring.

When she handed him a full breakfast plate, the wide smile on her face matched the smile she'd sculpted out of bacon and eggs on his pancakes.

* * *

_**I usually pride myself on consistent updates. Alas, that pride is shattered, so I hope that this chapter makes up in the smallest way for my inconsistency. A confession: I'm flying out of state this weekend, so the next update may very well take time. I apologize in advance.**_

_**If I have not already, I would like to reiterate and extend my sincerest thanks to an awesome fandom. This story is chugging right along with a (for me) mind-numbing 90 reviews! And my other Shamy fic is on it's way to 100! So, THANK YOU, fellow Big Bang and Shamy lovers. I appreciate it more than you know.**_


	16. Discontent

_**Usual disclaimers apply. **_

**January 1943**

"Are you ready?" Bernadette asked.

"Quite," Amelia said, stepping outside of the station door.

The pair skipped in the chill, bypassing crowds and bustling stragglers as they navigated the Pasadena streets during the lunch rush. Steam seeped from grates on the ground and shop windows fogged, spider-web designs branching from the sills. It was unnaturally cold in California.

"Sammy's today?"

"As much as I adore the other blonde in our group, I'm about Sammy-ed out," Amelia replied.

After the incident last year at the unfamiliar café, Amelia had been more selective in her choice of dining establishments.

"We were there with everyone Monday, and then last night Coop took me out."

"Does it not seem… I don't know, boring?" Bernie asked. "Going to Sammy's every few Thursdays for some oddly official date?"

"You say boring. I say, habitual reassurance. I know, even if Coop's not particularly inclined, that we'll have that day. But you know those aren't the only times we interact."

"I do. But for me, it just seems that your dates, your… timing, I guess. It's all a little restrictive." Bernie's short legs were moving double time to keep up with the foot traffic. She turned her head toward her feet and focused on her pace. "But what do I know? It's only what I know from the outside looking in."

"And what else have you observed?" Amelia asked.

"It doesn't matter what I think. If you're happy, then that's all that matters."

Amelia knew this as well as she knew the functions of the brain stem. She was happy, most of the time. _It doesn't matter what it looks like as long as I'm happy..._ It was her mantra, repeated over and over after some frustrating engagement with Coop. But when he was frustrating, good gracious was he _frustrating_.

Just as she had known and feared, he had retreated into formalities after the night of his drunken confession. Polite, even gentlemanly, brilliant and occasionally condescending, Coop had reestablished whatever status quo had been set prior to his drunken condition. There was no touching, no body-embracing or hand-clasping or back-patting. She still enjoyed his company, and he hers. Amelia could tell from their conversations and occasional games, which were as spirited and stimulating as ever. In other personal regards, he was merely clinical.

The only thing she had were the glances. Looks so long and private she would turn her head, flushed. Looks inappropriate in mixed company, but he would arch a challenging eyebrow until she broke, sputtering as Penelope thumped her over the shoulder and offered her a glass of water. Then one searing look near Christmas that had her suspecting a repetition of activities from that late summer night, this time in the darkness of the Pasadena streets. Unfortunately, she did not get what she'd requested from Santa that December.

Amelia had asked herself on more than one occasion, how could she go back? Knowing the way he tasted; the landslide of nerve impulses he could stimulate with a hand on her cheek; knowing that somewhere, beneath the layers of dermis and intellectual peacocking and denial, there was a man who had _touched_ her, in the word's every connotation. She felt such guilt at night, repeatedly recalling his weight on her abdomen, the brush of his trouser leg on the interior of her knee. Knowing that such an invasive encounter could be so wonderful: his tongue tickled the hard palette at the roof of her mouth; his fingers rubbed the jut of her hip bone. His demeanor from the overall exchange left her feeling like a wild beast encountering a caretaker for the first time: exposed, yet fierce, and ultimately thrilled by a novel sensation. She knew him; but she wanted to know more.

Sometimes knowing was the best and worst of all.

"How about this place?" Amelia asked, coming back to the world of the living. For her night with Coop was dead. She desperately needed to grieve and move on.

"Been here before?" Bernadette questioned.

"Once or twice with a crowd from the station. A little swanky, but it's swell for a luncheon."

"Fine with me."

The girls checked their coats and waited as the maître d' gathered up two menus. Sifting through cigar and pipe smoke from the business men at the bar, the two women were seated at a corner table near a window, water glasses and butter knives, center-pieces and origami napkins displayed like a museum exhibit.

"Swanky indeed!" Bernadette cooed.

"It's actually a little nicer back here," Amelia said, giving the menu prices a quick glance. "They've got a blue plate special that won't break the bank, though."

"I thought you said you'd been here before?"

"Mainly in the bar at the front. Hazard of working with all those guys."

"I couldn't stand the smoke. I like the hospital for their ban."

"How are things in the rehab ward?" Amelia queried. "It must be bitter sweet in a place like that."

"The beginning and middle bits are always bitter," Bernadette sighed. "And even some endings. But it's the more triumphant endings that make it all worthwhile. Like this one guy, great kid, had his lower leg amputated… Gangrene, you know-"

"Eh hem, drinks ladies?"

The women looked up at a young waiter, face bleached like the color of his pale white serving shirt.

"Just water for me," Amelia said.

"Same. Anyway, the gangrenous tissue—"

The waiter poured from a pitcher into their stemmed water glasses, his color fading to a sickly eggshell as Bernadette continued her tale. The pitcher shook in his hands and a few drops soaked the pristine tablecloth. Embarrassed, he knocked over a service tray in his retreat.

"Odd. It's like he's never heard of necrotizing flesh before," Amelia said.

"He might be scared that he's next," Bernie offered, taking a sip of her water. "They've upped conscription numbers." She tilted her head to the side and unfurled the dinner napkin, setting it demurely across her lap. "The boy was able to walk in the end. He still comes in for weekly rehab, but that'll soon be unnecessary. They've been trying out some fascinating research at Stanford with revolutionary prosthetics. They even got a government grant!"

"I don't know if I'd sound so enthusiastic," Amelia said.

"Why not?"

"If the government's doling out the money for fake limbs, that probably means they lack the confidence for a quick resolution. They think we'll need advanced prosthesis because they'll be recruiting boys by the truckload. You just said yourself they've increased conscription numbers."

"I never thought of it that way," Bernadette said. "It's a miracle Leo was rejected for combat."

"I didn't want to be the one to say it, but yes. I believe we're all happy Leo's opted for a civilian battalion. I know Penelope is, not to mention Coop."

She ordered her meal from the nervous waiter, thinking back to the night that Penelope had told her the news.

"Leo's been rejected again."

"Again?" Amelia asked.

"Third time he's tried. I love him, but I can't help but feel he's doing it out of stubbornness now."

"And it's always the preliminary medical test?"

"If it had just been one thing, then he might have been able to get in," Penelope ran her fingers through her drooping blonde hair, sluicing a mauvish wine in her bowl of a glass. "But it's not just his eyesight. He's got the corrective lenses. But they find the wheezing murmur every time, which ticks the box for asthma. Then he's got absolutely no arch in his feet, so the running course always trips him up."

"Quite literally, I would imagine."

"Yeah. And then there's his allergies, and how he can barely eat anything _I_ cook, let alone the stuff they mass produce in a military kitchen."

Amelia let that one go.

"But he still wants to volunteer in the civilian corps? CalTech needs him," Amelia insisted. "Science isn't going to stop because of the war. If anything, I'd say it was booming now more than ever."

"Leo said something like that to me. Coop mentioned they might work together, but Leo turned him down flat. I know Coop can be a pain to work with sometimes…" Penelope slurped her wine. "No offense."

Amelia waved a deferring hand.

"But why would he reject a project like that? You said Coop's working for the government. Like Howie, right?"

"It's a different sector, but yes. They're… comparable," Amelia answered.

"Then I don't know _why_ Leo was so against it. Said he'd join the CPS and go to one of those camps for a year instead. He doesn't get as much leave time, but he'll be in California, at least."

Amelia set her own glass down at this information. "Penelope, are you sure Leo has done the research on this? Those camps aren't federally funded. They're religiously oriented, and they get little to no pay. It's a camp almost exclusively reserved for conscientious objectors. Sure, he'll have a bed, board and a small stipend, but he's giving up what would be considered a very lucrative position for difficult physical labor at one of those camps."

"He says he wants to serve. I'm not going to tell him he can't do it."

"He's failed the minimum medical requirements several times. He'll still be doing hard work, just not under gunfire."

"He's told me all of this, but he's got his mind set on it. He just doesn't want to be at CalTech right now. Said something about scientists censoring their papers, because bad information could get out. Not just at CalTech, but everywhere. 'Said there was a difference in him fighting and letting science fight for him. I don't know what that's about," Penelope said, rinsing her glass at the sink. "Are you ready? It's almost time for the picture, and the guys will be knocking soon, if Coop's got any say in the matter."

"Sure, I'm coming."

Amelia knew then that Leo wasn't just avoiding involvement in Coop's project. He was wholeheartedly against it. Why else would a man so determined to fight on the front lines consign himself to service in a labor camp with religiously-motivated COs? It took much of her will power not to confront Coop about the project, ask him detailed questions about his experimentation, and then finally figure out if he knew just what the hell he was doing.

Their food arrived and Amelia suddenly found herself back at the table with Bernadette, who had just asked her a question about Leo's forthcoming departure.

"When is he leaving again?"

"First of March, which is good, because Coop will be gone then, too."

Bernadette looked up sharply. "Where's Coop going?"

Amelia's hand whizzed forward for her water glass. She'd forgotten about the secrecy necessary for Coop's position, and needed to buy some time. Chugging its contents, she made a show of placing it down and dabbing her upper lip with the napkin.

"He's had to travel so much lately. He's thinking of making a permanent move, like last summer," Amelia lied. Well, not technically a lie. He was moving, just not to Berkeley. Los Alamos was much farther away, but the facility was not yet complete. Luckily for Coop, its completion coincided with Leo's departure. "He's just been working closely with everyone at Berkeley. It's wise for him make the transition until things slow down."

"But won't you miss him?"

"Always."

Coop had been back in Pasadena for several months, but he still traveled on weekends. He was always busy, equations, schematics and aspirin neatly piled on his work and home desks. Workdays bled into the prevening and into nights, sometimes at her expense. Now that Project Y was thoroughly underway, Oppenheimer had introduced Coop to an intimidating figure he referred to as The General. General Leslie Groves worked directly with Oppenheimer, which meant he was a constant presence whenever Coop delivered his reports up in Berkeley. He had been absent, according to Coop, for some time now, overseeing sight construction at Los Alamos. In the New Mexican desert, ignorant crews toiled away on buildings and reactors that would change the course of the war, and Coop would be moving there in the spring. He'd report to Oppie and The General, and try to keep his head down during his stay at the facility.

In the interim, Amelia would have little reason to visit apartment 4A.

She attempted to prepare for Coop's departure by rededicating herself to her work. She phoned sources, asked the hard questions, and even broke a significant story involving fraudulent rationing practices at one of the Los Angeles metropolitan distribution centers. Despite the small acclaim that came with busting a felony case, Big Bill had given her no more recognition than his go-to grunt. Without Dennis there to entertain her, Amelia felt like the station had turned into some hyperbolized feet-in-cement situation, days dragging by with the speed of a jungle sloth. She'd get short notes from Dennis every now and then. They were vague, but he always updated her on his location and well being. She'd received his latest letter earlier today:

_Ameliabird!_

_ Got two more outings with the unit on New Britain. If all goes like we think it will, we'll take a crucial city come first of the month. Doing alright, but the Pacific looks different here than it does from a beach in California. Hope the bossman isn't screwing with you. Who knows? When I get back, I might be a Major, or a Captain, or some big shot like that. Then we'll see what Big Bill Banks has to say to a Major and a doctor! We'll knock off and start our own station, see how the old man likes a little competition. Just 'cause I'm gone for the time being doesn't mean you can forget about the best man in that newsroom, capiche? _

_ Your boy a world away,_

_ Dennis_

_P.S. If you'd like to send a pack of cigs across an ocean, I wouldn't object. You've got the address. Help a man out._

"How old was that boy?" Amelia asked Bernadette, fork tines grating against porcelain. "The one with the gangrene?"

"He turned twenty-one three weeks ago. We had a party in the ward," Bernadette answered. "Why do you ask?"

"No reason," Amelia said, clutching the envelope in her pocket.

Dennis had written with such assurance in that note. _When _I come back. The best _man_ at the newsroom. Since when did Dennis morph from boy to man? Since his unit took Banu in the Pacific, that's when. Thanks to the postal delay, Amelia had been able to figure out just which city he'd mentioned in his letter. The Americans won, which filled her with a relief akin to verifying one's questionable hypothesis. It was temporary, and only substantial if replicability was assured. When fighting battle after battle, one cannot always replicate favorable results.

"What about you?" Bernadette asked. "Anything new on the work front?"

"Moving right along, I suppose. Teaching is where researchers go to die. I feel the same can be said of integrity for journalists."

"Surely it can't be all that bad."

"It's probably not. But I've never been more frustrated. I've transformed from scientist to war correspondent. Not that those reporters aren't important, certainly. We've all had to make sacrifices, the least of which is being relegated to a different field than one's specialty and interest. But when I even _suggest_ scientific stories at the station, I'm put on phone or desk duty for a week. It's hopeless."

"Why don't you quit?"

"What else would I do?"

"You could teach a few more classes," Bernadette suggested. "The money is there, as is the position. You're a great teacher."

"Thank you, though how you come to that conclusion I do not know." Amelia smirked at her friend. "If there was just some way I could tie it all together…"

"What's that?"

"Science. The military. Something more than weaponry reports. I want to dig into someone's head, see what the psychophysical effects are, how they manifest during a return to civilian life. If a complete, unimpeded return is even possible."

"Not everyone readjusts," Bernadette said. "It's a bigger problem than it's made out to be."

"I know! But my listeners don't. If I could find a story that clearly explained some of the side effects of TBIs, what shelling and shrapnel can _do_ to the brain after prolonged exposure…"

Bernadette toyed with her white plate, running a finger along its edge in indecision. Amelia had grown closer to the woman, appreciating her friend for her spunk as well as the intellectual stimulation. She loved Penelope dearly, but it was encouraging to speak with another woman about biology, micro or otherwise. Bernie's eyes narrowed behind her glasses as she leaned forward, settling her ample chest on her crossed arms at the table's edge. The red cross from her nurse's uniform bulged on her tiny bicep, as if she were preparing to get down to business.

"I think I have a story for you."

Amelia discarded her utensils and matched Bernadette's body language, dropping her voice.

"What story?"

"Do you remember how I left pharmacology a few months ago because of that drug?"

"The one they give to the patients with the brain injuries?" Amelia whispered. "The ones who undergo electro-shock—"

"ECT, exactly. The name is _Pracoxsin_. I don't mean to tell you how to do your job," Bernadette said, voice nearly lost in the din of the restaurant. "But I'd write that down if I were you."

"What more can you tell me?"

"Nothing here," she said, rotating her head like a carousel horse. "And I need to be back soon. But I'll bring you some—" her voice, usually so high and cheerful, dropped an octave. "—files, because you might be able to make sense of something that I don't see."

"Won't you get in trouble?"

"First do no harm, remember?" Bernadette said, motioning for the check. "And Amelia, this thing is doing harm."

"Should I come by your apartment once you're off work?"

"No, let me come to you. Howard won't mind, but I'd rather not be caught with that stuff at our apartment."

The anxious waiter returned with the bill, which the two women split.

"Besides," Bernadette said, plopping a sizeable tip on the note. "Howard's been stressed with production output problems at work, and he hasn't heard from his pen pal in a week. I'd hate to make you see a grown man cry, no matter how small he is."

* * *

_**The plot thickens... substantially, if this clunky chapter is any indication. Speculation and reviews appreciated.  
**_


	17. Casualties of War

_**I took some liberties with history here. The battle mentioned is actually Naval, not Army, but I bent details to my will. If you have a problem, take it up with the fiction police. Of which there are none. So, good luck with that. Don't own, never will. Enjoy!**_

**April 1943**

One of Amelia's favorite books was by Oscar Wilde. She would not go so far as to term herself a consummate fan, however, because the Anglo-Irish dandy preferred to argue for that ill-tempered genre known as _art_. He argued eloquently and succinctly, though. Which is why she held onto his pamphlet of pithy axioms. The one that came to mind currently, was that the only way to defeat temptation was to give into it. And boy, did she.

This was, to her count, the sixth time she had found herself in a broom closet in the past three months. She prayed, God help her, that it would be the last.

Amelia knew that with each return for more information, she risked discovery. But the temptation to take it all was irresistible.

McCormack General was a converted casino-resort-turned-convalescent-federal-experime ntal-hospital. They were, to Amelia's detailed knowledge and research, on the cutting edge of trial-period medicine. No wonder Bernadette had started out in their pharmacology ward. They were looking for the best and brightest. What troubled Amelia was the relative lack of security; sneaking through hallways and ducking into broom closets had become routine practice for her.

She felt above her head for the metal pull on the exposed light bulb, having nearly been lashed in the face by it on her first excursion into the space. Pulling down and illuminating the cramped area with a click, Amelia thumbed through a file she had pinched from the pharm lab.

"Pracoxsin, chemical makeup…" she read swiftly, sketching double-bonded compounds and elemental symbols into her notebook, short hand notes covering pages from top to bottom, front to back. This was the biggest story of her career, and she was terrified. When Bernadette had first proposed the investigation, she had been so gung-ho one might have thought she'd been invited to trace electrical impulses on axon stems. The more she researched, the more her excitement faded, leaving behind a cold, indignant fear that curdled in her stomach like sour milk.

"I've spoken with two other people," Bernadette told her, shortly after their January lunch date. "We can't talk about it openly at work, but I know, and they know it, too, that this stuff is bad with a capital B."

"Then why does the hospital keep using it?"

"It's cheap," Bernadette said. "I used to fill the 'scripts for the neurology ward, and we'd go through more of that drug than any other. I'm not sure _what_ it does. I just know it either does it very well or very poorly."

So their first job was to find out just what Pracoxsin did. Bernadette got Andrew from neurology to slip her two unused samples on the condition that his involvement remain unpublished. He had his own qualms about the stuff, but not enough to get him fired from a stable and lucrative position.

It was the first of February when Amelia unlocked the facilities at the labs of UCLA, Bernadette by her side and Pracoxsin samples in her pocketbook. She'd bypassed ole' J.R. Simms, the elderly night watchman. She hated lying to the old man, mainly because he'd been so good to her in the past: leaving doors unlocked so she could stay late grading; escorting her to the edge of campus if she stayed past sundown; he'd even brought her a Coke one afternoon because she'd complimented his alert vigilance, carting off some rambunctious undergrads who had weaseled their way into the department after hours. She took note of the reciprocal back-scratching proverb, vowing to utilize the practice in future endeavors.

"Just wanted to give my gal pal here a tour of the labs, J.R.," Amelia said. "Won't be long, I promise."

"Fine, fine, Dr. Fowler." J.R. replied. "You two ladies holler if you need anything."

They slipped into a small auxiliary lab and Amelia flicked on the overhead halogen bulbs. Another button press and the groan of the centrifuge filled the room, the beast of science waking from hibernation.

"Will this do?" Amelia asked, motioning toward a microscope. "I would have gotten the higher-powered model, but I feared someone would notice if all of our best equipment walked out of the primary lab."

"I'll be able to look at the compound structures as long as it stays separated on the slide," Bernadette answered.

And so the night began. Machines whirred and the women observed, breaking the Pracoxsin components into the miniscule building blocks that made up chemistry and medicine and biological response. She could barely contain her excitement, being back in the lab again. She preferred dissection and the sickly-acerbic scent of preservation fluids, but the sheer presence of a shiny scalpel on a stainless steel tray had her shivering with glee. She wasn't the only one. Bernie glued herself to the microscope that night; upon her return home, Howard had asked after her cross-eyed state. The two women just smiled knowingly, as Bernadette ran into the doorjamb.

Jolting herself back to the present moment, Amelia was relieved to know that Bernadette's initial sketches of the Pracoxsin compounds matched the official records to a _T_, which only confirmed her hypothesis: that this drug was slowly wearing away at the brain cells of returning soldiers. She flapped the file closed and stashed it under her overcoat, thankful for the extra bit of room she preferred in many of her garments. She pressed her ear against the hard wood of the closet door and chanced a turn of the knob. Then, with a confidence she'd only perfected within the past month or so, she stepped into the hallways of McCormack General.

Amelia had fashioned a badge similar to the ones the staff of the hospital sported; it was almost too easy, after closely studying Bernadette's and noting the symbols on each department's respective I.D.s. What troubled her most was how simple infiltration could be. She had made enough frequent trips to the hospital that those who passed her twice or more probably considered her a regular staff member. With the aid of a handful of disgruntled employees, she had successfully integrated herself into one of the foremost complexes of the American Healthcare system, and would soon be delivering a crushing blow to its constitution. The hospital powers-that-be were either naively trustworthy or incompetently stupid. She had been extremely careful. Neither she nor her informants took original files, only copies. Amelia made certain to come in and leave with crowds, especially patients.

She had also perfected walking with purpose. Her strides were less clipped, her posture more stately. People rarely questioned those who walked with assertion, confident body language speaking in place of words. Instead of the fear associated with avoiding eye contact, there was intention in her gaze. She wanted staffers to feel uncomfortable questioning her, and so she would bug her eyes at curious onlookers, making _them_ feel like they were the ones out of place. Before turning into the main lobby area, she propped against a wall and pretended to read a file as patients and nurses strolled past. And then, not two minutes after her stop, she rapped gently on the door she was leaning next to, and a file slid out from the slit at the bottom. Deftly gathering up the paperwork, she exited the hospital for the last time, and did not crack the seal on the document until she was safely in her apartment.

She plopped the notes and files on her corner desk, head slumping as she rotated her neck over tense shoulders and frayed nerves.

_Bath_, she thought.

A steamy waterfall gushed from the faucet head and clouded her mirror. It was only midday, but she'd been up since three a.m., careful to enter the hospital during the shift change. She pulled pins from her head and shook out her long hair, disrobed, and settled herself into her modest tub-shower combo. It was nothing like the classic cavern of her youth that was her aunt's clawfoot tub, but it had been one of the major selling points of the apartment. Burning water inflamed her skin and tickled the base of her hairline. The soapy scent of vanilla was like a muscle relaxant; congested bubbles floating like carriers and u-boats on the sea of her bath water.

Three months. Three months of her life dedicated to this story. She'd kept up with her teaching responsibilities, and covered her beat at the station with alacrity and professionalism. She'd stopped with the scientific suggestions, which kept Big Bill apathetic towards her person instead of openly hostile. This story was going to break open a new genre of investigative reporting and draw listeners from every region possible; perhaps Bill would give her more leeway when it was all said and done.

_Keep it up, Ameliabird!_ _Show 'em what you're made of! _Dennis had written. She'd not disclosed any full details, just let him know she was working on something that could really shake up the station. He had been so supportive in his few letters, never pushed for information but always encouraged. As he had written once, he was a world away, a lieutenant now. But the boy had the genuine courtesy to reply with interest. She smiled, happy that her story might just help someone like him.

With the aid of Bernadette, Andrew, and Betsy from personnel, Amelia had discovered the purpose of Pracoxsin. It was a neural stimulant, a catalyzing substance that sped electronic signals in the pathways of the brain. The problem, however, was that it was also corrosive. Like stripping a copper wire of its protective rubber casing, Pracoxsin intensified the rate of neural impulses generated in patients with traumatic brain injuries, hoping to subvert any delays caused by combat wounds with a lubricated signal route. That route, though streamlined, lost its integrity over time. Shocks and jolts from ECT irritated the nerves further. Neural pathways crumbled under recurring electrical stress, and soldiers who once experienced hallucinations and panic attacks, convulsive fits and violent outbursts walked like ghosts, hollow bodies with little personality, dead after surviving a war.

In every draft of her report, Amelia compared the drug to a chemical lobotomy.

She had found patient files, the most severe cases having been discharged weeks prior to her involvement. Amelia spoke with spouses, parents and children of soldiers who had undergone treatment, and discerned an overwhelming misery in their plight. Loved ones who had once been so vibrant possessed no life. The consensus was mixed. Some preferred the sanity and levity of their loved ones with the occasional erratic bouts to the zombie-like condition the men took on. Others were happy just to have the men alive, no matter what state they were in.

She would walk up to seemingly average front porches, only to be met with a desperation that nothing but war could cause.

A twenty year-old wife with a toddler on the kitchen floor and an infant in her lap sighed, wiped the drool from her husband's chin and squared her shoulders in Amelia's direction.

"Do not think me cruel for what I say, Dr. Fowler."

Amelia had never lied to the patients' families. She always introduced herself as a scientific journalist.

"But Paul here," the young woman regarded her husband. Her hair was pulled back into a severe bun, and deep lines ran south from the corners of her lips, as if she had perfected the art of the frown. She might have been pretty once, even beautiful, but the wear of life and hardship had aged her twenty years. "He was the kind of man to give it all. He disliked laziness, promoted hard work, and yearned for activity. But he has not left the table this morning. Or any morning, since we finished treatments at the hospital."

There was no light in the man's absent eyes. Just a mysterious stain on his shirt and a lack that Amelia could not articulate.

"I almost wish—" she cut herself off, kissing the top of the infant's head. "He has Paul's smile," she said, turning the infant toward Amelia. "I only ever get to see my husband's smile on my son's face," her voice was like a gravel road, bumpy and jarring, heading for a wreck. "I think, and Paul thought this to… that it's better to die living than to live dead."

Amelia submerged herself in the bath water, anything to get that dry, void expression out of her brain. Her legs floated, inches from the base of the tub. When her skin broke the surface of the water, goose-pimples paraded down her legs, took right turns at her elbows, pierced the follicles on her forearms. She wondered if this was what it felt like to lose one's mind. This buoyant, suspended feeling, floating in an innavigable gel. Moments of clarity would break through, like a case of the chills, and for a moment, one cherished instance, when you knew exactly where _here_ was and how your lover spoke and what you did to deserve this and then… emptiness. Back to a state you never realized you left, because realization is a privilege of the aware, a club to which you no longer belong.

_Enough of this_.

Half an hour later she was pouring over her notes, trying to make the report as reliable and official-sounding as she could. She had testimonies from patients' families, but no one from the hospital would go on the record. Betsy offered to go on deep background, but even so, a source "that works in the federal healthcare industry" was vague and easily disproven without someone willing to step forward and give a name. She would never ask Bernadette to do that, nor would she put the blonde woman's colleagues in jeopardy after they had helped her compile all of the information.

Confidential information.

Patient files. Chemical diagrams. Administration directives. All classified information. No family had asked her how she'd gotten their names, no one had questioned her because there was nothing _to_ question… yet. When it all exploded, she'd either win the battle or come back with a mouth full of shrapnel. Her typewriter dinged at the end of the line, while she clutched her star and prayed for the former.

A few hours later, she was pacing behind her couch, chewing a nail as Coop carefully placed her copy on the tea table. He had taken all of his belongings out to Los Alamos this week, and was back to finish up last minute cleaning before closing the apartment for the summer. Oh, and to bid her farewell for the foreseeable future.

"So?"

Coop looked blankly back.

"What do you think?"

"I think the federal government is getting away with murder to save millions for defense spending."

"Is that what you got from it?"

"Isn't that what I was supposed to get from it?"

"Well… yeah, I guess," Amelia said. "But it's more than just money, Coop. Families can't pay for food because the soldiers can't work. Kids are going to grow up fatherless."

Coop shifted uncomfortably.

"I don't even know if the station will let you air this. Does your manager check you copy?" he asked.

"He does his best to keep me out of his sight."

"You mean to keep out of your sight?" Coop asked.

"No, I mean he makes pointed attempts not to look at me. Not to even acknowledge my presence. He has some sort of, primeval prejudice against me. I believe he resents my education."

"Do you flaunt it?"

"Not mercilessly, like you," she joked.

"Well, if you don't have to submit your story prior to air, I suppose he has some sort of trust in you. That or complete disregard toward your professional career."

"I'll go with number two."

"Back to the story itself, I know you're going for sentiment with this, but you've only got a handful of cases to go by, and no corroborating sources."

"What about the one who works at the hospital?"

"No name, no title. Could be a janitor."

"We've gone to air with less," she said.

"Which is what infuriates me so about the journalistic field."

"Don't you think people have the right to know this?" Amelia asked. "That if their son or brother or husband comes back with a brain injury and they start hooking electrodes up to their heads, they're doing more harm than good."

"I never said it wasn't a good story. Well-written, emotionally engaging, revelatory, very good reporting."

"I didn't ask you to read it to get your approval."

"Then why did you want me to read it?" Coop asked.

"I don't know." Amelia stopped her pacing and slumped into her spot on the edge of her couch. "Am I doing the right thing?"

Coop picked up the collection of papers and handed it to her. He sipped his tea and resumed his rigid posture, turning toward her with a dogged expression.

"I don't ever think you would intentionally do the wrong thing. I think that your motivations, though occasionally skewed, have a purity that others disregard or have lost all together. Even though this story might only directly affect a hundred people at most, it could end up helping millions. I hope that they let you go to air with it, and look forward to your broadcast tomorrow."

Amelia's mouth bobbed like a guppy's. Confound this couch, and all of the beautiful things that happened here. She wanted to embrace him in gratitude, to soak up whatever calming, clear-headed logic he possessed like her skin soaked up bath bubbles. She recklessly wanted to kiss him, to see if she could steal the composure from those thin lips, to saturate herself with his professional decorum.

"Thank you," was all she could muster.

* * *

The following day came too soon, and before she knew it, she was nodding at the weekend producer from behind the glass. Ever since Jim had returned, she'd been back to her hourly Friday or Saturday stories. The pressure was only on once a week now. But today, she might have been at the bottom of the Marianas Trench. The weight of this story was bone crushing.

"What's the segment for your A-block?" Carol, the weekend producer asked. She was relatively new in the office, which put her on weekend shifts with Bill's least favorite person behind the mic. Good luck, Carol.

"I'm bypassing the weekly war roundup," Amelia said, spreading her papers on the desk in front of her. "This story is about military personnel, a profile of sorts."

"Did you clear that with the station manager?"

"Are you planning to interfere if I told you I didn't?" Amelia asked hotly, eyebrows raised.

Carol shook her head nervously and rotated a dial. "One minute," she said.

Amelia had timed her script on five separate occasions, reading the copy aloud to Coop, her mirror, and her stuffed monkey she had had since childhood. Ricky rarely came down from his perch on her bookshelf. Her plushy friend protected the envelope she had snatched from Bill's office the day of Pearl Harbor. It remained, unopened, under the monkey's arm. He protected it now like he had protected her in childhood. Despite his unraveling tail and faded smile, her brown monkey buddy had provided a comforting, easy audience. If only all of Pasadena was as compliant as Ricky.

Carol knocked on the glass and held up five fingers. She lowered her thumb, then pinky, ring, and middle, and with an alarming swooping motion, Amelia was on the air.

"Good afternoon, Pasadena," Amelia began. "Please pardon our deviation from the regular weekly combat review. Today, I'd like to tell you a story. A story that is both alarming and confirmed, touching the lives of people that you might have once seen on your very own street. I've spoken with over fifteen families affected by this tragic symptom of war, and I urge you to pay close attention. I begin this story with Sergeant First Class Paul Holden, a young officer honorably discharged, recipient of the Purple Heart. Accolades aside, this man is a casualty of war. He can no longer bring a spoon to his lips. He has not the awareness to run a comb through his handsome hair, or to perform the deceptively simple task of buttoning his shirt. Instead he sits, blank as a cloudy night, while his wife hopes he retains the kernel of discernment that would prevent the man from soiling himself in front of his two children. Paul Holden is a hero. He is also a casualty. But his war is not leagues or miles away, fighting Germans or planes hell-bent on sending every last vessel to the watery depths. Paul Holden, and others like him, are victims of our own federal directives, casualties of the war at home…"

Amelia was so engrossed in her reading she did not notice Big Bill Banks rushing into the sound booth three minutes later; she didn't notice Carol reeling from the stool, Bill's hands working furiously at wires and buttons; she didn't notice his red, boar-like face, or Carol's sickening stare. She only knew that if she quit reading, her courage would fail, and her months of work would be for naught.

Suddenly, it wasn't just her voice in her headphones anymore. There was a dull banging, and she finally registered Bill's presence in the control booth. He made a slicing motion across his jugular and shouted into the two-way booth-to-studio speaker, "You're cut off! My office, NOW!"

The weight of the Marianas returned. She would never know how much she got out before he'd rushed in. Or what mind-numbing drivel was being broadcast from their station to take her place. Probably an ad for war bonds. All she knew was that reading had more than likely been her final time in the booth.

"Where the _HELL_ do you get off running with something like that?!" Bill fumed, beet-red and bellowing. "Talking about our boys like they're puppets, embarrassing their families like that—"

"It's the government that should be embarrassed," Amelia said. "They did this to them. Not one TBI case receiving treatment overseas has degenerated at such speeds. It's a home-grown problem that the public can rectify, but you didn't let me get that far."

Bill stubbed the butt of his cigar into a cut glass ashtray and banged his fist on the desk.

"You really think you're some shit, don't you Birdie? Better than us 'cause you got that fancy-ass degree, want to tell a story with all those high-falutin words, instead of speaking plain—"

"I think the descriptors you're looking for are 'academic-perspective' and 'precise'."

Bill raised a hand to his opposite shoulder. Amelia thought, briefly, that he was going to slap her, christen her face with a back-handed wallop to complete the walk of shame she'd just taken from the sound booth to his office. He sneered, and swept his hand across his body, clearing his desk in one fell swoop.

Amelia jittered as the ashtray shattered, glass shards casting an ethereal, rainbow prism glow on the walls of the mostly tan office.

"This has been a long time comin', Bird. You're fired. Pack your stuff and leave before I have some federal officer beating down my station door."

"We've been to press with a lot less corroboration," she echoed her statement from the previous day.

"It's not the corroboration that screwed you. You really think listeners want to hear about soldiers pissing themselves on a daily basis? That those men cry at night 'cause they saw their best friend's head blow up? That the _government's _gonna put up with this accusation?! There's a line of decency in this job that you've toed from day one. And guess what sister, you long-jumped across that line today."

"You mean to say that glossing over everything is fine? Lying is perfectly acceptable, but the truth of their conditions is too brutal to broadcast?"

"Too bad you get it once you've been fired."

"There is no decency in that," Amelia declared. "War is brutal. The after-effects are brutal, and circumstance is unkind in the most malicious way, when it takes the mind of a once-proud warrior. And what you are doing by censoring me, is cruel. You are prolonging a suffering that could be ended quickly. Families that have no platform to speak go silent. I can speak for them."

"Not on my microphones," Bill said, pointing at his door with finality. "Bye, bye, Birdie."

Amelia packed her things in an empty box she'd found under Dennis's old desk. Thankfully, much of her stuff was already at her apartment. She had not wanted to leave all of her notes, her sources, and her legal pads for this story in the open newsroom. Shoving the last of her pens into her jacket pockets, she made her way to the door. She didn't know who started it, but the staccato clapping in the newsroom was discordant with the entire situation. Stopping briefly and nodding at her now ex-colleagues, she gave herself over to the injustices of censorship, seething all the way back to her apartment.

Coop was catching the three o'clock train today for the long journey out to the desert. He had postponed his trip specifically for her broadcast. No doubt she would get a letter, sympathetic with the slightest-hint of an _I told you so_. Coop was leaving, indefinitely, she was out of a job, and Pracoxsin was still being used on returning shoulders. Thank God she still had the semester at UCLA to finish out, or she would not have been able to make her rent.

She unpacked her shabby box of papers at her home desk, letter opener slicing through unopened correspondence she had put off answering from the station. Most of it was junk. A bit more was irrelevant, now that she was out of a reporting job. But there was one stubby, thick yellow envelope scrunched in a box corner that caught her eye.

Breaking the seal, she removed the note, and a patch of fabric fell into her half-unpacked box. It was a single, faded silver bar on tattered green material. The note inside was in unfamiliar script. Amelia read with an unpreparedness she later regretted:

_Dr. Fowler,_

_ My name is Second Lieutenant Jeremy Caudwell. I'm writing with a heavy heart to inform you that on March 27, First Lieutenant Dennis Banks was killed in action during a battle on the Komandorski Islands. After a good show in the South Pacific, our unit was restationed to the Northern Islands. Dennis took command, and fought bravely. _

_ He often spoke of you. He told us you were really smart, but not 'that kind' of doctor. Said you were one of his best friends. Would've thought he was sweet on you if he hadn't of kept insisting you were like a sister. Well, we figured family should know. I've enclosed his Lieutenant's badge. He worked real hard for it, and I thought it would be good to go to someone he admired._

_Regretfully,_

_Jerry Caudwell_

Amelia threw the letter down and stripped, skirt exchanged for a pair of lightweight pedal pushers she'd not worn in ages. She threw on running shoes and a simple t-shirt, galloped to the cable car, and made it to Los Robles completely out of breath.

Had a tenant walked past, they would have cursed that recurring out-of-order / do-not-enter sign on the basement door. Cursed, but returned to their apartments unawares. The sound of poundings fists and weighted grunts echoed in the lonely elevator shaft, only to be replaced by sobs as the weary day wilted into night.

* * *

**_I know, I know. But, like Amelia said, war is brutal. I'll take the flames, or the reviews, if you have them. _**


End file.
